The Pine-Woods Excursion
by LilyBaggins
Summary: *COMPLETE* Non-Slash. Wee hobbit sickness and angst. On a day trip from Rivendell, Frodo meets up with something quite unpleasant. No sex, no language.
1. Bite in the Bushes

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION Part 1/?  
  
Author: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13 (for wee hobbit pain and suffering) angst, h/c. No slash, no sex, no language.   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises, or whoever has the rights now, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. Contrary to many of my other stories, this fic contains NO slash and is written for the FrodoHealers! group on Yahoo.  
  
***NOTES: There are of course medical treatments employed in this fic which are contraindicated today. Also, this is obviously an AU story---we know this didn't happen. And I've taken a few character liberties: in the books, Aragorn was out journeying during this period of time with Elladan and Elrohir, but for the sake of my story, he's delayed his trip a bit.   
  
I really hope to update frequently, but have another story going at the same time---so I must alternate. As soon as that one is finished---which should be in the next week or so, I'll devote all my time to this one, unless rotten tomatoes get thrown at me to stop.   
  
Feedback: Sure. Archiving: Iffin you wanna.   
  
***  
  
He lay in bed as long as possible, staring at the ornately carved beams on the ceiling above. For the seventh morning in a row, he had woken up with the same thought: He was going to Mordor. Perhaps not immediately, but surely soon enough. Something he could not name had possessed him to volunteer for the perilous task, and it was too late to back out now. In weeks, at the most, he would be going---and dragging others with him into great danger.   
  
But enough negative thinking, Frodo told himself. He was planning to have a grand day---Aragorn had volunteered to lead the hobbits on a hike through the pine-woods around Rivendell. Comprised of tall, elegant trees, unlike any Frodo had ever seen in the Shire, the pine-woods were breathtaking, and Frodo had longed to walk through them from the first moment he had seen them outside his terrace.   
  
But until lately, he had been too weak to venture so far. He still felt rather weak or chilled at times, and it irritated him---he had never taken well to being an invalid. He was tired of being sick---had been ill nearly the entire month of October---and was ready to be over it. Even for a Baggins, Frodo gave new meaning to the word "stubbornness," Bilbo had always said.   
  
Yawning, Frodo rose, noting that the weather outside was perfect---a sunny, crisp November day. His clothes had been set out for him as he slept---every morning when he awoke, he noticed that---and every evening when he returned, his bed was perfectly made. Of course, some days he made it himself, but Frodo had never been much of a housekeeper, and making the bed was a domestic chore he had always hated. Getting dressed, Frodo headed out to the gardens to see if Bilbo was awake.   
  
And he was: sitting on his usual bench, short legs dangling, as he scribbled notes in his book. "Frodo!" he called as he spied the younger hobbit walking toward him. "My dear boy, I am glad to see you looking well rested. Would you care to join me for second breakfast?"   
  
"Second breakfast?" Frodo asked, startled. "Is it that time already?"   
  
Bilbo laughed. "You slept late, Frodo my lad. But no matter---you must have been exhausted." He patted Frodo on the back, and Frodo thought to himself how nice it was to be around Bilbo again, and to feel so . . . cared for. Together, they headed off to the massive kitchens, where they scared up a huge breakfast before it was time for Frodo to meet up with the others for their outing.   
  
***  
  
Four hours later, the hobbits---minus Bilbo---were indeed enjoying themselves and were sharing a glorious picnic in the middle of the sunny valley. They ate more of the tiny fruit tarts, cold chicken salad, cheese, thick loaves of bread with honey, and sponge cake. Aragorn was enjoying this carefree time as well, since he was soon to leave for another wearying scouting journey with Elrond's sons. Although, the ranger admitted to himself, keeping Pippin out of trouble required some diligence.   
  
"Aragorn," the youngest hobbit was whining, watching the ranger puff on his pipe, "why can we not go into the cave? I for one should like to see what was in it. Some great treasure, maybe."   
  
Aragorn declined to answer, having tired of the question, but Frodo shook his head at his youngest cousin. "Pippin, haven't you learned anything? After the Barrow-downs, I'm quite surprised you are even thinking of wandering off somewhere unfamiliar---or of treasure."  
  
Pippin sighed. "Maybe you do have a point, Frodo. At any rate, the scenery here is quite nice, and we do have plenty of food, so I will be content."  
  
Frodo looked around---the scenery *was* breathtaking, and he could truly believe that no darkness entered the valley. For a bit, he was even able to forget the terrible evil that hung about his neck.   
  
They all continued to munch heartily for quite a while----and even Frodo managed to down a good bit of food. It had taken him some time to get his appetite back after his wounding. He smiled at the others, enjoying the sight of watching them stuff their faces after their scarce provisions a few weeks earlier. When all had finished, they packed the picnic up and eagerly continued hiking up the valley.   
  
They were forced to trudge through some particularly heavy undergrowth, laden with brambles and thick beds of pine needles, and it was slow going. But none of them seemed to mind---the area was beautiful and they were not in a hurry, and to Frodo, it had seemed a long time since he had been able to enjoy the sunshine without fear for his life.  
  
He was admiring a small blue bird flying up above when he stepped into a particularly thick clump of undergrowth and felt a particularly sharp thorn puncture his calf.   
  
Wincing, he leaned down to inspect the wound. There was a slight bit of blood, which he wiped away, as he ruefully considered that perhaps men were indeed wise to wear boots in such country. But it was just a small scratch, and catching his breath, he hurried to catch up to the others.   
  
Sam had noticed Frodo lagging behind and called for the others to wait. As Frodo neared him, he tripped a bit over a rock and Sam's eyes grew round with surprise as he looked at Frodo's leg.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, you're bleedin," Sam said, pointing to Frodo's calf about six inches above his ankle.   
  
"I'm fine, Sam. Just a scratch. I stepped into a thorny bush a bit ago. It will heal."   
  
Sam looked skeptical---a typical Sam expression Frodo had learned to ignore, much to his gardener's dismay.   
  
"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but there's quite a bit of blood running down your leg. Strider!"   
  
Sighing at Sam's over-protectiveness, Frodo bent over and looked at the wound---and was quite surprised to find that Sam was not exaggerating. His calf was, indeed, still trickling blood. But Frodo could see no obvious wound, although he felt a slight tingling sensation at the site.   
  
Aragorn was beside Frodo in a moment's time, kneeling to look at the leg. The ranger wiped the blood away with a soft napkin from their picnic basket, his eyes narrowed and brows knitted together as he examined the wound.   
  
"Sit down, Frodo," he commanded.   
  
"But Aragorn, I am fine . . . I don't see what the fuss is about, really . . ." Frodo countered. Deciding not to argue, Aragorn stood and gently pushed the hobbit to sit on the ground, inspecting Frodo's leg once more.   
  
"This isn't a scratch, Frodo," Aragorn told him, his voice grim. "You've been bitten by a snake."  
  
"A snake?" asked Sam and Merry at the same time, their jaws dropping.   
  
Frodo gulped. "Surely you're joking, Aragorn."   
  
The ranger raised his eyes to meet the hobbit's blue ones, which had widened in fear.   
  
"Am I the type of person to jest about such a thing? And I am a ranger---trust me, I know a snake bite when I see it. I can see the puncture wounds, and they are bleeding due to the venom within. You must rest as quietly as possible to keep it from spreading, do you understand?"  
  
Numbly, Frodo nodded, putting his head in his hands. His leg was beginning to ache. "So it was a . . . poisonous snake?" He was still trying to digest the information. How could this have happened? Perhaps Aragorn was mistaken.   
  
The ranger smiled slightly, gently brushing back Frodo's hair. "Yes, Frodo, it was poisonous. But do not worry---we'll get you back to Rivendell in just a moment and take care of you. With proper treatment, you should be fine. But you must cooperate with us---and I for one know how stubborn you can be as a patient." He raised his eyebrows and gave the hobbit a mock glare.   
  
The hobbit nodded. "I will cooperate." He was relieved to hear the wound was not necessarily life-threatening, but he didn't at all relish the idea of possibly being sick again. Trying to lighten the situation, he smiled slightly. "Compared to a Morgul knife, a mere snake should be nothing, I would hope."  
  
Aragorn smiled. "That's the right way of thinking. Hold on just a moment---I'll be right back."  
  
Truthfully, the ranger *hoped* everything would be all right. They had the means in Rivendell to successfully treat snake bites, but he had the added complication of Frodo still not being one hundred percent recovered from his Morgul-blade stabbing coupled with the Ring-bearer's tiny size. Each snake bite was different---there was no way to know how much venom had been injected into Frodo, and a dose that might not affect a man could very well prove fatal to a hobbit.   
  
Fishing in the picnic basket, Aragorn removed the cloth they had eaten on earlier and tore it into two strips before going back to Frodo. From his spot on the ground, Frodo watched, his brows knitted together, wondering what unpleasant treatment the ranger surely had planned. Sitting and taking the hobbit's small leg, Aragorn quickly tied a strip of cloth above the bite and another below it---snugly but not tightly.   
  
"That will help to restrict the flow of the venom but won't restrict blood flow, Frodo. Now, this is probably going to hurt, but must be done, all right?"   
  
Without waiting for an answer, Aragorn pulled his long dagger out---Frodo thought he could hear his own heart beating when he glimpsed the metal flashing. Wasting no time, the ranger quickly made two incisions over the bite wound, grimacing as he saw Frodo flinch at the sharp pain. But by this time, the hobbit's leg was beginning to ache quite a bit, and a little extra pain was not terribly noticeable.   
  
Leaning down, Aragorn put his mouth to the wound and sucked, drawing the venom out and spitting into the grass. Frodo was beginning to feel downright nauseated, and he wondered if it was because of his anxiety or the effects of the venom. Aragorn repeated his sucking and spitting treatment several more times, and Frodo grimaced at the pain of it.   
  
The hobbits had all heard of this method of treating snake bite before---it was employed in the Shire---but they had never seen it done, and it made them feel a bit queasy. They remembered the warnings they had been given as children to beware of snakes, and they also remembered little Mosco Burrows, who had been bitten by a snake at the tender age of six and lingered, in terrible pain, for days before succumbing.   
  
Finally the ranger finished and bent to pick Frodo up. The other hobbits were still standing around, a bit dazed at it all, their lips tight with worry.   
  
"Really, Aragorn, I can walk," Frodo protested, although he was beginning to feel a bit dizzy and lightheaded and wondered if he was thinking clearly. "Please, I'm not an invalid---I'm perfectly capable of making it on my own."   
  
"No," Aragorn said in a voice that brooked no argument, eyeing the hobbit's face, which was growing paler by the minute. "If you walk, the poison will spread faster. Do you understand?" His eyes were gentle, feeling pity at all the hobbit had been through in the past weeks.   
  
"All right," Frodo replied weakly as Aragorn lifted him and settled him on his hip as he would a small child so that the bite wound was kept well below the level of the hobbit's heart. Frodo clasped his arms around the ranger's neck to hold on, watching the beautiful scenery pass him by. Together, the group trudged back down to the Last Homely House, the three walking hobbits struggling to keep up with the ranger's long strides.   
  
"I was so enjoying the day," Frodo whispered from his position in Aragorn's arms. He winced as his dangling leg was jostled a bit, making the wound ache more. "And here I've gone and spoilt it for everyone."   
  
"Nay, little one, it is certainly not your fault," the ranger admonished, patting Frodo's back to soothe him. "Now rest until we get there."  
  
Frodo laid his head against Aragorn's shoulder as his stomach churned and his vision blurred---whether from tears or the poison he didn't know.   
  
To be continued 


	2. Soft Old Nightshirts

The trek back to the Last Homely House, seemed, in Frodo's mind, to take practically forever. Still balanced on the ranger's hip, his leg had begun to ache painfully enough that he had to keep from gasping every time Aragorn so much as stepped over a rock. Glancing down at the tiny wound, Frodo saw that the swelling had grown much worse.   
  
"Aragorn, how much longer?" he asked in a small voice.   
  
"Not too much longer. We did not walk out far before we stopped for lunch. A good thing hobbits insist on eating so often."  
  
Frodo closed his eyes and tried not to think about food. The idea of it made him feel positively ill, and he had spent the last half hour seriously concentrating on not throwing up on Aragorn's shoulder. He sighed. Behind them, the others walked, and Frodo met their eyes, trying to smile reassuringly, although he found it difficult to do.   
  
"Try to rest, Frodo," Aragorn advised as he rubbed the hobbit's back gently, "and do not worry---we'll be there soon enough, and then you can lie in a soft bed. I daresay that despite the snake bite, you've probably overtaxed yourself today simply from the long walk."  
  
"Yes." The word was drawn out and weary, and Frodo closed his eyes, too tired to look at the beautiful scenery anymore. "Aragorn, do you know what type of snake it was, by any chance?"   
  
The ranger shook his head. "I do not, but I have my guesses. Fear not---I have some experience with treating such injuries, Frodo. Now, rest as I bid you to do earlier."  
  
Finally the Last Homely House came into sight, and Aragorn, carrying a rather bedraggled-looking hobbit with three others in tow, ignored the stares of the inhabitants as he strode through the doors and called for someone to fetch Elrond.   
  
Wasting no time, the ranger made directly for Frodo's room. As soon as they had reached it, Aragorn bid the others to turn down the bedclothes on the huge bed in the center of the room. Gently the ranger deposited Frodo onto the soft cool sheets, and the hobbit lay back with a sigh. He was still trying to get used to this bed---he was certain at least six hobbits could have slept in it at once, it was so large, and it made him feel awfully small. Pulling the covers up, Aragorn tucked them around the hobbit, leaving only his lower leg bare. Shock was not uncommon after a snake bite, and the ranger wanted to make sure Frodo was kept warm.   
  
Sitting Frodo up a bit, Aragorn fluffed his pillows and placed them behind Frodo so that the hobbit lay in a half-reclining position to slow the poison, while Sam fetched a cool damp cloth for Frodo's forehead. Frodo was grateful for it, for his head had begun to ache and the room was spinning. He winced at the sunlight streaming through the large windows.   
  
"Sam," Aragorn ordered, "would you lower the window shades a bit, so it is not so bright in here?"  
  
"Aye, Strider. It's as good as done."  
  
Lifting the cloth on his brow briefly with one hand, Frodo raised his head and winced as he looked at the bite wound on his calf. It was now quite alarmingly swollen and discolored, with streaks running through it. It reminded the hobbit a bit of his Morgul wound and he sighed, laying his head back and replacing the cloth.   
  
"Just lie still, Frodo," came Aragorn's voice. The ranger was milling about the room gathering things, and Frodo could smell the faint scent of athelas.   
  
"Aragorn, where did you get that? I didn't know there was any in here . . ."   
  
"Ah, we have a whole stock of supplies in here from your earlier illness. And no one has ever thought to take them out, seeing as how you are still recovering."  
  
Frodo nodded, then wished he hadn't as a wave of dizziness hit and his stomach churned. "I see. I suppose that's a good thing, seeing as how I am practically the most accident-prone hobbit in history. Any room I stay in seems to need an entire arsenal of healing herbs and concoctions."  
  
Pippin chose that moment to pipe up. "I wouldn't say that, Frodo . . . remember the scrapes I've gotten into? There was the time I fell from the smial pantry while trying to get that jam jar . . . and remember the time I even poured the powder out of some of Gandalf's fireworks and lit it all on fire? Now that was a bad idea."  
  
Frodo smiled weakly. "I remember. Your eyebrows took forever to grow back." He grimaced as Aragorn sat down on a stool next to his bed and began cleansing the bite wound thoroughly with athelas water. The ranger was always worried about the possibility of infection.  
  
The door opened and Gandalf and Elrond entered, their faces tight with concern. They immediately went to the side of Frodo's bed, and the hobbit was beginning to feel somewhat nervous with so many pairs of serious eyes looking at him.   
  
After a moment Gandalf spoke. "Well, Frodo Baggins, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?" the wizard asked gently, his eyes kind. The words were harsh, but belied by the hand that came up to brush the hobbit's dark hair back from one pointed ear.   
  
"Nothing so terrible as a Morgul-blade, Gandalf. But all the same, it is not . . . exactly the way I would have chosen to spend the rest of my time in Rivendell."  
  
The wizard chuckled, and Elrond leaned down to peer at Frodo, his brows knitted together as he laid a hand on his brow. The hobbit would have been alarmed at the elf-lord regarding him in that manner---as if he were at death's door---if he hadn't known that it was simply Elrond's normal facial expression, whether discussing good news or evil.   
  
After a moment, Elrond turned to Aragorn and began to speak Elvish, and Frodo concentrated hard to interpret. He was certain they were discussing either extremely unpleasant medical remedies for him, or else who should be the Ring-bearer after he was long gone. *No more negative thinking,* he told himself and closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea.   
  
He felt a hand remove the cloth from his brow and opened his eyes to see Gandalf wringing it out before he replaced it. "Frodo, how are you feeling?" the wizard asked him.   
  
"Not too badly . . . stomach churns and leg aches quite a bit, and my hands and feet are beginning to feel a bit tingly. Almost . . . like pins and needles. I can't explain it."  
  
Gandalf looked down at him pityingly, wondering at Frodo's definition of "not too badly." He sighed---to someone who had just recovered from a Ringwraith's stabbing, a snake bite likely seemed a small matter.  
  
Aragorn, who had just finished cleaning the wound, rose and came to Frodo's side, feeling his face and neck for signs of fever. "The tingling is a side-effect of the venom. Elrond will prepare a poultice to help prevent the spread of the poison, and some other medicines as well. And we'll get you something hot to drink to help with your pain and nausea."  
  
Frodo nodded and opened his eyes. "Where's Bilbo?"   
  
"We've sent someone to fetch him. He'll be here directly, Frodo," Elrond answered.   
  
Gandalf spoke up. "Are there not, Elrond, Elvish medicines that would take care of this very quickly?"   
  
The elf-lord shook his head. "We can do much, Gandalf, but cannot stop the effects of the poison entirely. Unlike the Morgul wound, this one is not based in enchantment. Therefore, our Elvish healing has but limited scope. It is up to Frodo's body to heal itself. But do not fear---he is strong." With that, Elrond left the room to gather much-needed medicinal concoctions.   
  
The hobbit on the bed lay listening, his stomach growing more upset by the moment, and closed his eyes. He opened them as he felt hands gently unbuttoning his weskit. Aragorn. Holding a fresh nightshirt for him to wear.   
  
"No, Aragorn," Frodo protested. He didn't like the image the nightshirt presented---it made him remember his recent injury, and he did not want to be an invalid again. "I don't need a nightshirt. I'm not planning on staying in this bed that long. As soon as I am able, I'm going to be up and about."  
  
"Frodo, be sensible. We should at least make you as comfortable as possible. You certainly cannot rest well wearing your travel-worn clothing." The ranger looked to the wizard for help.   
  
Gandalf smiled. "Once a Baggins, always a Baggins, I say. Frodo, listen to Aragorn. Rest now, and if you feel like getting up later this evening, you may do so."  
  
Frodo acquiesced. "Very well." He grimaced, however, as he looked at the shirt---one of Elven design, with intricate leaf patterns and small gold buttons on it. He wasn't certain where it had come from, but he remembered waking up in it after his shoulder wound and finding it quite uncomfortable. As a result, he'd been sleeping in one of his extra day shirts since that time. He wanted a normal, soft linen nightshirt such as the ones he'd worn in the Shire.   
  
"Isn't there another shirt . . . that isn't so . . . ornate?"   
  
"Ornate?" Aragorn and Gandalf both stared at the hobbit, who frowned.   
  
"So . . . fancy. It's rather uncomfortable. Perhaps Bilbo has an extra."   
  
"Ah," said Aragorn. "I remember now. Pippin, if you will, check in that wardrobe yonder across the room. I believe there are several in there that Bilbo left while Frodo was ill."  
  
The young hobbit did and pulled out a hobbit-sized white linen nightshirt---a normal, plain nightshirt of the type Frodo was accustomed to. Frodo smiled gratefully. Looking at it, he did indeed recognize it as one of Bilbo's old ones. The old hobbit must have put them in his room and forgotten to tell him about it.   
  
Aragorn, with Sam's help, bent to remove Frodo's clothing. Sam, however, had a difficult time reaching Frodo across the wide expanse of the bed and so he sat down on the edge of it, jostling it a bit. Unfortunately, that was all Frodo's stomach needed to expel its contents. He whimpered and retched, feeling Aragorn's arms sitting him up and supporting his head as he vomited.   
  
When Frodo had finished, gasping, Aragorn wiped his face well with a damp cloth and Sam brought him a bit of water to swish. Wincing, Frodo looked around and realized he'd quite ruined his shirt and the bed sheets.   
  
"Look what I did. I made a mess, didn't I?" he moaned, feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't know I had to . . ."  
  
"Nonsense, Frodo," Aragorn replied gently. "Don't worry about it---we'll take care of it. And in a moment, someone should be bringing some ginger tea for your stomach. That should make you feel much better."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Frodo---you couldn't help it," added Sam as he removed the rest of Frodo's stained clothing and directed Merry and Pippin to bring clean sheets and blankets from a cupboard.   
  
When Frodo's two cousins had returned with armfuls of clean linen, Aragorn gently lifted Frodo in his arms and covered him with a blanket as Sam finished stripping the bedclothes. Pippin and Merry quickly made the bed back up, grateful to be able to help, and fluffed Frodo's pillows.   
  
Aragorn lay Frodo back down in the fresh bed and wiped his face and chest again. He and Sam were just about to ease the hobbit into his nightshirt when the door opened again to admit Arwen, carrying a tray filled with several steaming ewers. Blushing, Frodo quickly pulled the bedclothes about himself, ignoring his aching leg and still-hurting stomach, so that the only thing visible of him were two blue eyes peering over the top of the bed sheet.  
  
But the elf maiden just smiled and sat the tray down on the bedside table, glancing at Aragorn and speaking to him briefly in Elvish. Then with a soft tinkle of laughter and a stroke of Frodo's brow with her pale hand, Arwen was gone.   
  
Shaking his head at the hobbit's modesty, Aragorn pried the sheets out of Frodo's fingers and began to put the nightshirt on over his head. It was soft and well-worn, and Frodo sighed as he was dressed and Sam pulled the sheets up to his chest and smoothed them, making sure to leave his swelling leg uncovered. Fingering the nightshirt's sleeve, Frodo closed his eyes and sighed. Dear Bilbo, he thought to himself, trying to ignore his rising pain.   
  
To be continued 


	3. A Bitter Taste in the Mouth

Frodo, still propped up on his pillows, lay trying not to move too much as Elrond removed the strips of cloth Aragorn had bound his calf with earlier and applied a very warm poultice to the puncture wounds. The hobbit's leg felt consumed now by a fiery ache, and the lightest of touches seemed to hurt abominably. But the lord of Imladris had said the poultice would do a great of good in drawing out the poison, so Frodo bore it as stoically as he was able.   
  
Gandalf was standing quietly next to Elrond, and Merry and Pippin were talking in low voices in the corner. Sam, always eager to be of service, had been sent off to fetch hot water bottles and various other sundries that were needed for Frodo's comfort. A warm fire was now roaring in the fireplace of the room, and the sweet smell of athelas scented the air.   
  
Seeing Aragorn enter his field of vision---which seemed be blurring a bit---with a steaming cup, Frodo made a face.   
  
"It's ginger tea, Frodo---it will help the nausea," the ranger explained. "And you need to be taking plenty of liquids. Here, just a few small sips for now, all right?"  
  
"All right." He had to admit, the nausea *did* seem to be growing worse. Frodo reached for the cup, but his vision was a bit unfocused and his hands shaky, and he nearly dropped it. Aragorn caught it before it fell---not without a knowing glance at Elrond---and held it to the hobbit's lips.   
  
"Drink, now. Just a bit."  
  
His hands steadier now, Frodo took the cup himself and slowly swallowed. It tasted all right---sweetened with honey, apparently, and the warmth did seem to feel good in his belly.   
  
"That's enough for now," Aragorn told him, gently prying the cup out of his hands and setting it on the bedside table. He reached out and felt Frodo's cheek---the hobbit's skin felt a bit clammy and was coated with a fine sheen of perspiration. Picking up a damp cloth, the ranger dabbed at Frodo's face with it. "How's the stomach feel? Think you can keep that tea down?"  
  
"I don't know . . . doesn't feel too bad. I suppose I can."  
  
"Good." Aragorn smiled a bit. "Because I have another drink for you. But you are not going to like it, I can guarantee, and I am sorry for that." With that, he took a small silver flask from the bedside table and poured some contents out of it into Frodo's tea cup.   
  
Frodo grimaced---he knew there would be something foul-tasting coming eventually, and what Aragorn was pouring didn't smell appetizing at all. Many of his memories from his Nazgul wounding were shadowy and vague, but one stood out extremely well: a pungent fluid they had gently forced down him, even when he protested, insisting he must drink it. He sighed. He truly hoped it wasn't the same potion.   
  
"What is it?" he asked, blue eyes wide as he tried to focus on the substance in the cup.  
  
"It is a treacle---many different compounds to combat the poison. Some of them are herbs used strictly by the Elves. They are quite powerful, but I am afraid there is no way to sweeten the resulting tea, and it is very . . . potent."  
  
"It is black, Aragorn, is it not?"   
  
"Yes, and it doesn't taste very good, but you must get it down. It is necessary."  
  
"Is it the same concoction I had when I was ill before?"   
  
Aragorn shook his head as he brought the cup to Frodo's lips. "So you remember that, do you? Similar, Frodo, but not entirely the same. Now, drink up. All of it, but slowly."   
  
Hesitating, Frodo took a sip---and nearly spit it out. It was, without a doubt, one of the worst-tasting medicines he'd endured---viscous and bitter. He choked for a moment, gasping, and the ranger was forced to sit him up and tap on his back to ease the thick fluid down, then gave him another drink of ginger tea to help the coughing. When he put the cup of treacle back to Frodo's lips, the hobbit shuddered, weakly grabbing the cup and trying to push it away.   
  
"No, Frodo, drink it down," Aragorn urged. "Only a bit more." The ranger's large hand closed around Frodo's on the cup and tipped it back. Slowly, Frodo swallowed, his eyes watering, until the cup was empty. Aragorn smiled and laid him back on the pillows, patting his shoulder and offering a bit of peppermint tea to clear the taste.  
  
"Thank you, Aragorn," Frodo said gratefully, his voice coming out a bit weaker than he'd intended. He was beginning to feel dizzier, worn out, and decidedly not even much in the mood for conversation anymore. He shifted in the bed a bit, grimacing as he felt nagging aches and pains come to life in most parts of his body, and closed his eyes. The tingling pain in his fingers and toes had worsened as well, and he whimpered a bit as he shook a hand, trying to get some normal feeling back into it.  
  
"Are you hurting?" Aragorn asked him.   
  
"Pins and needles feeling . . . it's growing worse."   
  
"I see. Here, let me help." Taking the hobbit's tiny cold hands, the ranger rubbed them briskly between his own, trying to impart some bit of comfort to them. "Your hands are chilled, Frodo, but we shall get you warm soon. Where is Sam with those hot water bottles, I wonder?"  
  
Frodo didn't answer. He lay with his head back against the pillows, trying to concentrate on not losing the treacle in his stomach. If he threw it up, that would only mean drinking more.   
  
"Ah, here's Sam now . . ." Aragorn was saying as Sam entered the room, his arms laden with several hot water bottles.   
  
"Here you go, Mr. Strider, just as you asked," Sam told him with concerned glance at his friend in the bed. "And when those cool down, I'll be bringin' you more of 'em, as long as is needed."   
  
"Thank you, Sam." Suddenly the rubbing of Frodo's hands stopped. "Here Frodo, let's make you more comfortable." Gently sitting Frodo up, Aragorn removed a load of fluffy pillows that had been behind him and eased him to lie back down, flat, on just one pillow. The hobbit sighed and opened his eyes as the ache in his back subsided just a bit.   
  
Pulling the covers back, Aragorn placed the warm bottles around the supine hobbit, along his sides and one on top of his belly, before tucking the covers back snugly about Frodo's shoulders and adding another down comforter on top of that. The hobbit's leg, however, was still uncovered, as Elrond was finishing up his treatment, and Frodo could hear him muttering faint phrases in Elvish as he laid his hands on the leg.   
  
Suddenly the door opened and Frodo blinked, his eyes growing wide as Bilbo's face appeared, leaning over him. "Bilbo! I've been hoping you would come."  
  
"Well of course, my dear boy, just as soon as I could get here." He bent down to plant a small kiss on Frodo's damp brow. "Oh, my poor lad---how are you feeling?"  
  
"I am all right, Bilbo. Master Elrond seems to think I received a low dose of the poison. I'm feeling a bit under the weather, but hopefully, this shan't go on for too long."   
  
As if on cue, Elrond rose from treating Frodo's leg and walked to stand by Frodo's head, gazing with concern at the sick hobbit.   
  
"Do not fear, Bilbo," the elf-lord told the elderly hobbit. "Frodo is strong. We're giving him a treacle---an antidote to the poison---on a regular basis and he should hopefully be up and about again in a week or two. Although," he added with a note of seriousness directed toward Frodo, "he will likely feel rather ill for a while and must rest as he is told to do."  
  
Bilbo let out a sigh, but all Frodo heard was "treacle," "regular basis," and "week or two." He frowned. "I'm going to have to drink that terrible potion again?" he asked with disappointment, his brows knitting together. "And a week or two---I cannot stay in bed a week or two."   
  
"Do not get worked up, Frodo," Elrond soothed. "Perhaps you will be up earlier---we shall see. As for the treacle, I am afraid so, my young friend. I do not know how often---we shall have to monitor you and determine that hour by hour. And I do apologize for the taste---I wish we could make it more palatable, but I daresay it could be worse. Now, let us have a look at you."  
  
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Elrond folded back the covers and took Frodo's wrist, checking his pulse, then felt his neck and cheeks and bid Frodo to follow his finger with his eyes, noting that the hobbit's vision seemed to be slightly affected. Then replacing the covers and laying his large hand across Frodo's small forehead, the elf-lord closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, muttering a few words in Elvish, before opening them and standing up, smoothing Frodo's hair back.   
  
"Rest, little one. I will be back to check on you shortly."   
  
Frodo nodded weakly, and with that, Elrond left. Moaning slightly as he felt a pain in his belly, Frodo turned over a bit, careful of his hurting leg, and sunk down into his warm nest of covers.   
  
To be continued 


	4. Voices in the Corner

Frodo lay curled on his side, his snake-bitten leg resting on top of his good leg; both somewhat immobilized by large pillows placed strategically around them and against his back. Over these, the bedcovers were draped, to keep pressure off the ever-swelling limb, and one pillow had been placed between his lower legs to give support to his injured calf. Even the slightest touch or movement of his leg caused the hobbit pain. All in all, the bed looked like a huge mound of pillows, and the hobbit ensconced within them was barely visible.   
  
He was not asleep---despite Aragorn's earlier dose of chamomile tea to encourage it---and could not seem to get his body comfortable enough to rest, although Elrond had come in a bit earlier to check on him and had put a hand on his forehead again, chanting in Elvish. The pain had briefly receded, but was on its way back. So he lay there, just a pale face and dark hair peeking out amidst the covers, blue eyes staring at the blurry hobbit sitting in a rocking chair by his bed.   
  
"Frodo?" Bilbo asked from the chair, leaning forward and becoming a bit more clear to Frodo. "Can I get you anything? The Dunadan says you must drink plenty of liquids---how about some ginger tea? It would help to settle your stomach." He smiled. "You always have had a sensitive stomach, my boy. I well remember that."  
  
The memory brought a tiny tired smile to Frodo's face. "Perhaps it was your cooking, Bilbo," he teased, his voice little more than a murmur.  
  
"Ah, I doubt that, Frodo. You always managed to put away quite a bit of my cooking, even though it never fattened you up. I tried, though."  
  
Frodo took his hand out from under the blanket and reached out with it, ignoring the pins and needles feeling that had grown worse. Bilbo took the hand in return, gently squeezing the clammy fingers.   
  
"I know you did, Bilbo," Frodo told him. "And I was only teasing about the cooking."  
  
"Yes, I remember you used to try to barter for mushrooms at the market with my yellow sponge cake with buttercream frosting. Then you'd come home and tell me I had to make one for you to trade . . . . Oh, how I'd . . ." Bilbo broke off abruptly, noting Frodo's heavy breathing and pursed lips. "What is it, my boy?"   
  
"The mention of food . . . makes me feel a bit ill."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry . . . I promise I won't mention it again. Does your stomach hurt very badly? Is there anything I can do?"  
  
As usual, Frodo denied any serious trouble and shook his head weakly. "I'm just having a difficult time getting comfortable, is all, Bilbo. No need for a fuss."  
  
The truth was, Frodo felt miserable---the nausea went unabated, his abdomen was cramping, and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. But Frodo didn't want the others fussing over him---they all had better things to do than worry about him. Squeezing Bilbo's hand harder, he closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out his fuzzy vision.  
  
But Frodo's ears were working, and he could hear Aragorn and Gandalf talking in low voices in the corner. He strained to hear, but couldn't make out the words.   
  
**  
  
"Just how dangerous is this, Aragorn? Is his life in jeopardy?" Gandalf asked the ranger, his eyes concerned.   
  
Aragorn shook his head. "Elrond thinks not, Gandalf, but I must tell you---it is always possible that the poison will affect him more severely than we anticipate. Especially in light of the fact that he is not entirely recovered from his Morgul-blade wound. I have no experience with hobbits and snake bites, Gandalf---but with humans, smaller people are much more vulnerable to things such as this. Therefore we're pouring medicine into him---if he can keep it down. I do not doubt that his symptoms will grow worse and he will be quite ill for a while, however, even with a complete recovery."  
  
"I see. And nothing more can be done?"   
  
"We are doing what we can, old friend. And Elrond is pouring all of his Elvish healing into him. I wish we could spare Frodo any pain, but until he has turned the corner and recovery is assured, we dare not give him too many sedating herbs or pain relievers. It might weaken him too much to fight the poison." Clasping Gandalf on the shoulder, the ranger smiled slightly. "But we have all seen, have we not, the hobbit's strength? If he can survive a Morgul blade, I have few doubts that he will recover from this."  
  
Both of them gazed toward the large bed dominating the room and the tiny quivering form nestled within its blankets---the only parts of which they could see were a few dark ringlets and one pale hand stretched out and clasping Bilbo's.   
  
***  
  
Frodo's eyes opened as he felt the bed shifting, and he reluctantly let go of Bilbo's hand. Someone sat beside him---Aragorn, holding a cup.  
  
"I'm sorry, Frodo, but it's time for another dose of the treacle," the ranger told him softly, his eyes pitying. He noted the sweat on Frodo's forehead and felt the hobbit's clammy cheek. Lifting the bedclothes away from Frodo, Aragorn gathered the hot water bottles and handed them off to Sam to refill.  
  
The hobbit screwed his small face up. "More? So soon?"   
  
"I'm afraid so. And then some more tea. We must get more liquids into you. Here, now, easy . . . there we go." Aragorn gently lifted Frodo's upper body enough to allow the hobbit to take small sips, but Frodo began coughing and sputtering and the ranger realized this was not going to work. Sitting Frodo up more, the ranger slid behind him and leaned him against his chest.   
  
But sitting up was too much---Frodo's stomach recoiled and he paled, his eyes drooping. "Aragorn . . ." he whimpered.  
  
Knowing that look, Bilbo quickly took the treacle cup and handed a basin to Aragorn a basin, who got it under the hobbit's mouth just in time as Frodo heaved and vomited. The punishment seemed to go on and on as Aragorn supported him, holding a wet cloth to Frodo's forehead with one hand while the other wrapped around him and held the basin.   
  
"Easy . . . that's it," Aragorn soothed.   
  
The vomiting gave way to dry heaves, then finally, spent, Frodo moaned and sagged in Aragorn's arms, his head flopping back limply.  
  
Aragorn handed the basin off then turned back to Frodo. The hobbit's eyes were half-open and his face and hair were wet. Grabbing a fresh wet towel from Bilbo, the ranger began wiping Frodo's face with it.   
  
"Is he all right?" Bilbo asked, his eyes wide with fear.   
  
"He appears to be just exhausted," the ranger replied as he felt Frodo's face and eased his nightshirt open a bit to feel of his chest and back. The hobbit did not have a fever---if anything, he was a bit shocky, and his nightshirt was soaked through with sweat and plastered to his small body. The bed sheets, too, were damp where he lay on them. "After we get the treacle down him, we'll change his gown and bathe him with a bit of warm water."  
  
At this, Frodo's eyes opened all the way and he peered up at Aragorn. "Treacle?" he asked weakly.  
  
"Yes, Frodo. You must drink it. It will make you well." He looked up at Bilbo. "Bilbo, would you please hand me another blanket?"   
  
The old hobbit did so, and Aragorn wrapped it around Frodo's shoulders, shifting him slightly, then picked the dreaded cup back up and held it to Frodo's lips, urging him to drink. Slowly, the hobbit sipped it, grimacing, until the cup was drained. Aragorn then gave him a swallow of the peppermint tea to mask the bad taste of the treacle and settle his stomach more.  
  
Easing himself off the bed and gently laying Frodo back down, Aragorn removed the pillows from around him and wrapped him up well in blankets. Then, being extremely careful of his injured leg, the ranger lifted Frodo off the bed, cradling him. Except for a slight whimper as his injured leg dangled a bit, Frodo made no sound.   
  
With that, Aragorn turned to Bilbo. "Will you take him, Bilbo, and give him sips of ginger tea while his bed is changed? I must go make up a new poultice for his wound and will prepare some athelas water to soothe him. Make sure he is kept warm--I will be back momentarily."  
  
"Of course, of course. Anything for my boy." Bilbo, sitting in his rocking chair, held out his arms and gently took Aragorn's burden onto his lap. Then the elderly hobbit pulled Frodo close to lean against his shoulder, wrapping the blankets about him tightly---especially about his sweat-soaked head---as he rocked.   
  
Frodo sighed in Bilbo's arms and snuggled closer to him, the edge of the blanket wrapped about his upper body falling away. Looking down to rewrap Frodo, Bilbo began to close up the front of the younger hobbit's nightshirt as well. Then he noticed the gold glint of the Ring about his charge's neck.   
  
To be continued 


	5. Whispers and Water

It lay moving slightly with the rise and fall of Frodo's chest---seemingly just a small shiny trinket---although everyone else in the room knew better. And for a brief second, the Ring called to Bilbo---and the old hobbit found he could not take his eyes off it.   
  
Mesmerized, Bilbo reached up to touch the Ring . . . and a shadow momentarily clouded his vision. He grimaced, sucking his breath in, and closed his eyes to collect himself. After a few deep breaths the shadow passed and Bilbo opened his eyes to quickly cover the Ring with the edge of Frodo's blanket. Now hidden, the urge to touch the Ring was gone.   
  
Sighing with relief, Bilbo hugged Frodo to him more tightly before drawing his hand away to smooth back the younger hobbit's sweat-soaked bangs. Frodo lay quiescent in Bilbo's arms, his face buried in the older hobbit's shoulder, seemingly asleep. About them a few elves busied themselves with changing Frodo's bed and tending to the fire in the hearth.   
  
Bilbo nearly jumped as he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder. Startled, he jerked his head up to see Gandalf towering over him.   
  
The wizard spoke, his voice low. "I see Frodo is asleep then, finally. Good. And you, Bilbo, are you all right, old friend? You looked rather upset just before I came over here. Almost as if you were in pain."  
  
Bilbo sniffed and looked at the bedside table, busying himself with pouring a cup of tea before raising his eyes to Gandalf's.   
  
"It was . . . the Ring, Gandalf," Bilbo whispered. "For just a moment there, I saw it about Frodo's neck and felt a . . . a yearning for it. But it passed quickly."  
  
"Ah, so that was it. The pull of the Ring. But I never had any doubts, Bilbo, that you would be able to resist its temptation---remember, you gave up the Ring willingly."  
  
The old hobbit nodded. "Yes . . . perhaps so. At any rate, I hope I shall never have to look at it again."  
  
"Are you certain you are all right now? Frodo still wears the Ring, after all."   
  
"Yes, Gandalf, the feeling of wanting the Ring has passed. I am all right---although I must admit," Bilbo said as he pointedly looked down at Frodo, tucking the blankets more tightly about him, "I am feeling very much like a hobbit of over one hundred years old just now."  
  
The wizard sighed. "Yes, old friend, I understand." He smiled. "I remember holding Frodo when he was but a boy and ill with a fever and begging for tales of the world outside the Shire. I must have spent long hours telling him epic adventure stories. Now, I suppose he has experienced enough adventure of his own that stories would likely be unwelcome."  
  
The bundle in Bilbo's arms stirred slightly and a weak voice issued from it. "No, Gandalf . . . I will always enjoy your stories---especially here. Rivendell seems made for stories . . . as long as they are happy. I think I've had enough of dark tales for a while . . ." The voice trailed off wearily.   
  
The wizard patted Frodo's shoulder gently, his eyes clouded with sadness.   
  
"Frodo, my lad," said Bilbo, shifting the hobbit in his arms a bit, "if you are awake drink some ginger tea for me. All right? Here." He was just about to take the cup from the bedside table when a gasp of pain escaped Frodo and he stiffened for a moment in Bilbo's arms.   
  
"Frodo? Frodo, what is it?" Bilbo asked him quickly. "Where does it hurt?"   
  
Barely able to speak, Frodo choked, "My stomach--it hurts."  
  
"There, there, my dear boy," Bilbo soothed, rocking his charge gently as he looked up and exchanged a glance with Gandalf. The wizard took one look at Frodo's pale sweat-soaked face and headed for the door to fetch Elrond or Aragorn.   
  
But at the same moment Aragorn and Sam bustled back into the room carrying a steaming vat of athelas water, fresh hot water bottles, and various other medicinal herbs and sundries. And in Bilbo's lap, Frodo relaxed again, the spasm of pain having passed.   
  
"Aragorn," Gandalf told him, once again peering down at the small patient, "Frodo was in some severe pain only a moment ago."   
  
The ranger nodded, his face grim, as he set his supplies down and went to Frodo, feeling his pulse and forehead before gently easing him off the older hobbit's lap. It was a bit difficult since Frodo had wrapped his arms firmly around Bilbo's neck and didn't seem to want to let go. Frodo whimpered a bit in protest as he was lifted from his warm spot and his leg slightly jostled again.   
  
"Easy, little one," Aragorn told the hobbit in his arms as Frodo caught his breath in pain, "It's back to bed with you now. We'll give you something to ease the pain right away and help put you to sleep."  
  
Frowning, Bilbo spoke up. "Aragorn . . . perhaps I should have held him a while longer . . ."  
  
"No, I am all right," Frodo said wearily, his eyes still closed, "the pain is gone now, really. No need for a fuss. It is only me, the ever-accident prone hobbit . . ."  
  
Ignoring Frodo, the ranger shook his head. "No, Bilbo, but we must keep his leg as immobile as possible and a bed is really the only way to do that. Once we get him settled he will be more comfortable, I assure you." He glanced at the weariness written in Bilbo's face. "Bilbo, truly, you could help the most by going and fetching Elrond right away. We may need to give Frodo another dose of the treacle soon. And on the way---why don't you go to supper---and have Merry and Pippin accompany you?"   
  
Bilbo nodded. "Very well, I will get Elrond and a bite to eat. But I'll only be gone a short while---then I'm coming right back to sit with Frodo." He gathered Merry and Pippin up with a glance and the three left the room. Gandalf took Bilbo's vacated chair by the bed, his eyes questioning.   
  
"Aragorn, was Elrond not planning on coming to check on Frodo shortly anyway?"  
  
The ranger nodded. "Yes, Gandalf, he was planning to be here within the hour--- but it would ease my mind if he would come now." His eyes told the wizard that he was afraid for Frodo---but wouldn't voice that notion in front of the ill hobbit---or Sam, who was watching them both with eyes practically threatening to spill over with tears.   
  
The bed was now made with fresh linens and Sam covered it with towels to keep it dry while they sponged Frodo down. The ranger gently deposited Frodo on the soft bed, carefully easing the injured leg down as the hobbit grimaced. It obvious that Frodo's calf, under the athelas compress, was swelling rapidly and becoming increasingly painful.   
  
"May I have my blankets back? It is very cold here . . . " Frodo mumbled, his eyes closed, as he felt Aragorn and Sam unwrapping the blankets from about him. His nightshirt was still wet and clammy, sticking to him, and he shivered as the coverings came away.   
  
"It is necessary to warm you up, Frodo," Aragorn told him gently as the ranger drew a small limp arm out of a sleeve. "Trust me, you'll be feeling better afterward. Here, Sam . . . unbutton and take this off over his head while I lift him up, that's it . . ."   
  
"There, Mr. Frodo," Sam told him softly as he and Aragorn pulled the soaked nightshirt off, leaving the sick hobbit shivering for a moment as the cold air hit his naked body. Taking a clean towel, the ranger dabbed at Frodo's face with it and wrapped it around the hobbit's head to dry his hair. Then, he placed more towels containing the hot water bottles around him.   
  
Aragorn and Sam worked with quiet efficiency, sponging Frodo down with the warm athelas water. Frodo did have to admit it that the warmth felt good on his skin, and he sighed and relaxed, turning his head toward the side of the bed and trying to focus.   
  
"Aragorn?" Frodo asked as he squinted up at the ranger's face. "Bilbo . . . did Bilbo leave? I cannot seem to see clearly."   
  
"Your blurred vision is a side effect of the poison, Frodo," Aragorn told him as he and Sam eased Frodo onto his side to wash his back. "It will go away once the venom is out of your system. And Bilbo just left to get some fresh air and a bit of supper. He will be back shortly."  
  
At this, Frodo's eyes opened widely and he stared off into space, unable to focus clearly on Gandalf in the chair. "It's the Ring, isn't it?" Frodo asked as a sigh escaped him. "Bilbo is not coming back, is he? Because I wear the Ring and he does not want to be near it. I heard him say so."   
  
"Ah," said Gandalf, "so you were not asleep during our conversation, then. Frodo Baggins, you are taking lessons from your friend Samwise Gamgee and eavesdropping. Bilbo said he hoped not to see the *Ring* again---and even if he should, he has resisted its power for years and shall do so again. But that does not mean he does not want to see you again. You are not the Ring, Frodo, and it is not a part of you."  
  
"I know." Frodo winced as Aragorn and Sam turned him back over onto his back. "Although it is difficult to forget that sometimes, being known as the Ring-bearer. And . . . the Ring seems to already have a power over me as well, though I am loathe to admit it."  
  
The wizard leaned closer to him and smiled. "You will fight it, Frodo. But right now you need to rest and not worry about anything. Although," he added ruefully, "I have tried this tack with you before, and it did little good. Your curiosity gets the better of you, my dear hobbit."  
  
Frodo smiled weakly. "I know, Gandalf." He sighed . . . the warm water had lessened his discomfort, and now Aragorn and Sam were drying him off with fluffy towels. That done, they eased another soft nightshirt over Frodo's head, lifting him slightly off the bed and pulling it down. The hobbit grimaced as his leg was repositioned and Aragorn turned him onto his side, placing the mound of pillows around Frodo as they had been earlier, effectively immobilizing his leg and keeping the bedclothes off of it. Then he tucked the hot water bottles in more closely around the hobbit and covered him snugly with the blankets.   
  
"There, Frodo," Aragorn said as he removed the towel from around the hobbit's head. "Feeling warmer? Now Elrond will be here in a bit to check on you and I will take care of your leg. Sam, if you would, see if Frodo will take more of that tea---we *must* get more liquids into him . . ."  
  
The sounds of Aragorn's voice faded out a bit as a wave of pain assailed Frodo. He moaned and closed his eyes, and Aragorn and Sam stopped what they were doing immediately. Pulling the covers back, Aragorn could see that Frodo's tiny hands were white-knuckled where they clutched his belly. The ranger sighed. The severity of the pain was not a good sign---it likely meant the poison was spreading.  
  
To be continued 


	6. Tender Treatments

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo, but you've got to drink it. Master Elrond bade me give it to you and ordered that you drink it all---every last drop of it."  
  
"I don't want it, Sam. I just had some, didn't I?"   
  
"That you did, sir. But you have to have it again---every half-hour's the dose, Master Elrond said, until you start getting better. Don't worry, Mr. Frodo---you'll be better soon enough."  
  
Sighing, Frodo allowed Sam to raise his shoulders and help him drink the treacle---which had not improved with time. In fact, Frodo was quite certain it was now stronger and even more bitter than it had been previously, and truthfully, he was tired of drinking. Every time he wanted to rest someone seemed to come at him with a concoction to drink, telling him he needed liquids.   
  
He drank a few sips of the treacle and then held his hand up, indicating that Sam should pause.   
  
"Please . . . Sam," Frodo whimpered as he lay back, gasping, sweat breaking out on his face once again, "I have to stop for a moment. If I drink it all down at once, it will just come back up again."   
  
Sam looked at his master with concern. "I understand. We'll just take tiny sips, like we've been doing with the other liquids. Does your stomach hurt badly, Mr. Frodo?"   
  
Frodo didn't answer---he curled up tightly on his side, trying to concentrate on keeping the pain and his churning stomach under control. It was beginning to be a losing battle. While the pain was not constant, he suffered occasional waves of terrible stomach cramping, and his leg now *was* a source of continual throbbing. His hands and feet, the hobbit didn't even try to think about---the pins-and-needles feeling he'd experienced earlier had only doubled. And he was sweating again---could not seem to stop---and felt his nightshirt becoming sticky with it.   
  
If he squinted, Frodo found that he could just see two figures talking over at the far side of the room. Tall people. Not hobbits. Squinting harder, he could see they were Aragorn and Elrond. Of Gandalf he saw no sign---Frodo thought he remembered the wizard leaving the room a while ago to take a break, just after Elrond had examined Frodo.  
  
Elrond had swept into Frodo's room a good while earlier and had immediately gone to Frodo's bedside, feeling his pulse and noting with concern the hobbit's pallor and gasping breaths as he fought the pain. The elf-lord had then lain his hand across Frodo's tiny brow (the hobbit was surprised he had any skin on his brow left, after the past month) and had whispered soothing Elvish words. A few seconds later, Frodo had felt the pain lower to tolerable levels.   
  
"Frodo," Elrond had then asked him gently, "how is the pain? Better?"  
  
Frodo had nodded, still unable to speak . . . and the elf-lord had felt Frodo's neck, murmuring something to Aragorn about "enlarged glands," after which he had pulled the covers back and gently disengaged Frodo's arms from around his middle so that he could prod the hobbit's belly and ask him where it hurt exactly.   
  
A mumbled "I don't know--everywhere," had not been the answer Elrond was hoping for, and he had sighed, folding Frodo's covers back and smoothing the dark hair from Frodo's ear.   
  
Then Elrond had removed the blankets from the hobbit's leg and had peered at hit, laying his hands on Frodo's calf for a several long minutes before standing and addressing Frodo with a gentle voice.   
  
"I must go prepare some more medication for you," Elrond had told him then, "and then I will come back and change the compress on your leg, Frodo. Rest until then." That had been a bit ago, and the hobbit suspected he soon had the tending of his extremely painful leg to look forward to.   
  
A voice brought Frodo back to the present and he opened his eyes wider, trying to focus on Sam.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, beggin' your pardon, but you need to finish this," Sam told him, holding the cup closely so that he could see it. "And then there's more---ginger tea and some more chamomile to help you sleep."   
  
"Very well," Frodo said weakly, allowing Sam to give him small, slow sips of the treacle. He shifted uncomfortably among his mounds of pillows---his stomach was beginning a dull ache again to go along with the nausea.   
  
A moment later, Elrond and Aragorn returned to the side of Frodo's bed, looking down at him as he grimaced from a sip of the bitter infusion he was drinking. Elrond spoke first.   
  
"I am sorry, Frodo, but it is my hope that the treacle will help greatly to slow the poison and help the pain. It is necessary." The elf-lord smiled. "It is a pity your stay at Imladris so far has been fraught with discomfort and illness, Master Baggins. But we will get you well quickly so you will be free to enjoy the time you have left here."  
  
Frodo visibly paled at that---thinking about leaving Rivendell and going on the Ring quest was more terrifying than what he was currently facing. All he could do was stammer a bit. "Th . . . thank you, Master Elrond."  
  
Patting his arm, Elrond sat on the bed by Frodo's leg and folded the covers back, piling them up so the hobbit could not view his leg. Frodo had to suppress a groan as the bed shifted with the elf-lord's weight. Carefully, Elrond removed the compress from the calf while Aragorn stood nearby, handing him herbs and towels as he needed them.  
  
Frodo, still taking sips of the treacle from Sam, found himself watching wearily. "What does it look like?" he asked, his voice tremulous.   
  
"What does what look like, Frodo?" Aragorn inquired, leaning forward.  
  
"My leg. I haven't seen it lately."  
  
"It is very swollen. And it will probably get worse before it gets better. That is normal."  
  
"I want to see it."  
  
"That's probably not a good idea, Frodo," the ranger told him, his voice stern. "It looks worse than it is---although I know it is quite painful for you. Let Elrond do his work."  
  
"Please?"  
  
Sighing, Aragorn lifted the heap of covers, exposing the leg to the hobbit, who leaned forward with Sam's help, squinting. The leg was blurry, but the sight was enough to cause Frodo's heart to nearly stop. The leg did indeed look bad---worse than the hobbit might have imagined---the wounded area swollen to twice its normal size and the entire lower half of the leg black with bruising.  
  
Frodo sobbed and put a trembling hand to his mouth, falling back against his pillows as his stomach lurched. He had not the strength to control it this time---both Sam and Aragorn caught and held him as he vomited into a basin, tears and sweat running down his face to mingle with the basin's contents.   
  
"Let it go, Frodo," Aragorn told him gently as he grabbed a soft wet towel and held it to the wet forehead, moving it down to wipe Frodo's quivering mouth as the hobbit finished.   
  
"Here, take some water to swish, Mr. Frodo," Sam urged as he tipped a cup to Frodo's lips. Taking a small sip, Frodo did as Sam asked and then lay back with a groan. Aragorn ran the wet cloth over Frodo's face again as the hobbit closed his eyes, curling up as tightly as he could without moving his injured leg.   
  
"Frodo," Aragorn told him as he removed the hot water bottles for Sam to refill, "listen to me. All snake bites look just like that---your leg will return to normal when you have recovered." He hoped, the ranger said to himself---but he wanted to do his best to be reassuring before Frodo went into shock.  
  
The hobbit sniffed, drawing himself up more tightly. "My shoulder didn't look like that, Aragorn . . ." he managed to get out.   
  
The ranger smoothed the dark curly hair back from Frodo's pale face. "That is because it was a different type of poison. Rest now---you will see, it will be all right." He tucked the covers more tightly around the shivering heap in the bed as Frodo moaned softly, his stomach aching again.  
  
At that moment there came a soft knock at the door and Frodo could hear it being opened. A woman's voice---definitely Arwen, speaking Elvish to Aragorn and her father. Then soft footsteps, and Frodo felt a tender touch on his brow and opened his eyes a bit---considering it faintly ironic that just when the loveliest creature he had ever seen was now at his bedside, he was unable to view her clearly.   
  
"Frodo," Arwen told him gently, "I know you are suffering. But you must drink something for me my father asked me to prepare---it should help to ease the pain and allow you to sleep for a bit."  
  
He nodded, feeling too weak to answer and thinking, briefly, of how horrified he'd be if he threw up in Arwen's presence. Arwen eased herself to sit on the bed next to him, raising Frodo's head and shoulders and cradling him against her bosom. The hobbit was nearly a deadweight in her arms. Dimly, Frodo was aware of how sweat-soaked he was beginning to feel, and he hoped he did not muss Arwen's dress.  
  
But the elf-maid didn't seem to be fazed. Bending over him so that her soft hair brushed against him, Arwen slowly fed Frodo sips of a sweet fruity tea he had never tasted before, rubbing his brow whenever he flinched in pain as her father finished applying a fresh poultice to the bite wound. After a while, the cramp in Frodo's belly receded to a dull throb and he felt himself relaxing. Done with tending to the leg, Elrond checked Frodo's vital signs again before he left for a time.  
  
Over Frodo's head, Arwen's eyes met Aragorn's and she smiled faintly, looking back down at the groggy hobbit snuggled against her. Frodo's eyes were half-shut and slowly they closed as he drifted off to sleep, breathing heavily.   
  
Gently, Arwen eased Frodo to lie back down among his soft bedclothes as Aragorn came over with a clean nightshirt. Together, they eased the sleeping hobbit's gown off and dried him a bit before dressing him in the fresh shirt.   
  
Looking down at Frodo, Aragorn smiled faintly. "It is a good thing he is asleep, my love," he told Arwen, "else he would be quite embarrassed to have you tending to him so. I think he is a bit taken with you."  
  
Arwen laughed softly, her voice musical in the quiet room. "Then it is good he does not remember me also taking care of him when he was ill from the Morgul-blade stabbing." She sighed as she bent to tuck the blankets about Frodo, then looked up at Aragorn, her eyes twinkling. "He is quite charming---as charming as Bilbo. Perhaps I will leave my ranger of the North for a halfling."   
  
Aragorn raised his eyes to meet hers. "Hmmmm . . . somehow I doubt that, my love."  
  
"You know me only too well, Aragorn," she told him, stroking his face. "Now go lie down and rest yourself---I will watch over Frodo while you do. And Sam will be back shortly---I doubt we will be able to pry that halfling away from Frodo's side. He is a loyal servant, that one."  
  
The ranger nodded and took her hand gently before leaving.   
  
Her eyes following him, Arwen turned back to Frodo and touched her lips to the hobbit's forehead before she sat down in the rocker next to his bed, keeping vigil.   
  
To be continued 


	7. A Roomful of Worries

Hi, and thank you soooo much for the lovely reviews!!  
  
A/N in response to Elizabeth Wyeth's question: Truthfully, I have not specified what type of snake it is---primarily because I'm not certain what snakes would have dwelt in Middle-earth. I *can* tell you that I thoroughly researched various snake bite symptoms before beginning this story and am continuing to while working on it, and Frodo's symptoms correspond most with a bite from one of the pit vipers, such as rattlesnakes, copperheads, and coral snakes. However... in researching, I found that the symptoms for any given snake bite seem to be extremely variable depending on the *exact* type of snake, amount of venom injected, size of victim, etc. Excessive sweating, tingling, abdominal pains, blurry vision, and nausea seem to be the most common symptoms for most pit viper snake bites, and Frodo is suffering from those. However, there are many other symptoms that are entirely within the realm of possibility. Each snake seems to have a unique action to its venom, therefore, my "unnamed" snake might as well. Therefore, I may take author's dramatic license to vary his symptoms beyond what I've read in the research strictly for pit vipers.   
  
Frodo's symptoms are worsening with time . . . as you will increasingly see. Of course, I must stop at a certain point before they get so bad they would automatically lead to death --- such as complete and total paralysis affecting the central nervous system and stopping breathing.   
  
***  
  
"Must you touch it? It . . . it hurts so badly," Frodo whimpered as Elrond folded back the covers to examine and care for the hobbit's leg.   
  
"I am sorry, Frodo, but it must be done. I will do it quickly, I assure you---and will try to lessen the pain for you," said Elrond as he began his task. Small sounds came from Frodo as Elrond cleansed the leg, and the elf-lord would frequently pause to pour his Elvish healing powers into the wound, giving his small patient a break from the intense pain. Arwen, still sitting with Frodo, leaned over to clasp the hobbit's tiny hands in hers, squeezing them gently and rubbing them at the same time to ease the tingling and numbness. Next to her, Bilbo had nodded off in a chair. And across the room in the corner, Sam, who had brought in hot-water bottles earlier to tuck in around Frodo, was curled up in a sofa, dozing.   
  
Elrond had just finished with tending to Frodo's leg when the door to the room opened to admit Gandalf.   
  
"How is he, Elrond?" the wizard asked quietly as he approached, sighing at the appearance of Frodo's leg---and of the hobbit himself.  
  
Frodo's eyes were closed but his restless movements and heavy breathing indicated he was not asleep. He still lay curled up on his side, but he appeared to have slipped down off his pillow and now lay with his head half under it; only a small part of his face visible and one hand curled up under his chin.   
  
Folding the covers back over Frodo's leg, Elrond rose and drew the wizard away from the bed.   
  
"He is being affected more by the poison with each passing hour, Gandalf. I am using the healing skills endowed to me such as I can, and we are giving him frequent doses of the treacle---which I know is not pleasant for him. We are giving him as much as we dare without overdosing him and must rouse him every half-hour to drink it. I fear, however, that we may have to increase the treacle's strength soon, regardless of the risk."  
  
The wizard's eyebrows rose. "Is it that risky?"  
  
Elrond nodded. "This treacle is potent---although we can make it more potent still, and can have unpleasant side-effect. You remember, Gandalf, how we warred with ourselves over how much medicine to give to Frodo during his recent injury. With a human or an elf, infusions can be risky---it is doubly difficult to judge when dealing with one so small. Especially when he is only able to keep down a small portion of everything he drinks and it is difficult to know how much is actually entering his system."  
  
"Has he been able to sleep at all?"   
  
Elrond shook his head as he turned to watch Arwen ease Frodo's head up and reposition his pillow, wiping the pale dewy face with a towel.  
  
"He has been resting for brief periods before he awakes in pain. The herbal infusions seem to help, but not enough. And we dare not give him extremely strong sleep-inducing medicines---the venom is beginning to affect his system enough as it is."  
  
"And what about his leg? It does not look good, Elrond."   
  
"Truthfully, Aragorn and I are very worried about the condition of his leg, Gandalf. The swelling has increased and pressure is building up. That could lead to loss of blood flow, and the consequences of that might be very grave indeed."  
  
"How so?"   
  
"If the poison does not take his life, it might, at the very least, take his leg."   
  
Biting his lip to control his reaction, Gandalf clapped Elrond on the shoulder. "You are doing your best, old friend. I do not doubt that. You will make him well."  
  
Elrond nodded grimly as he walked to the head of Frodo's bed and checked the hobbit's pulse and temperature. At the elf-lord's touch, Frodo's eyes drifted open, but he had to blink several times to see who it was through his fuzzy vision.   
  
"Lord Elrond?"   
  
"Yes, Frodo. Are you feeling any better?"  
  
He was feeling miserable, and he talked with difficulty. "I feel dizzy . . . and my body aches." He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again. "W . . was there a feast tonight---and . . . storytelling in the Hall of Fire?" His breath caught a bit as a wave of pain washed over him. His belly had started its cramping again. Seeing his grimace, Elrond pulled the covers back and made sure a hot-water bottle was snugly tucked against him.   
  
"There is nearly always a feast, Frodo---and tales, singing, and poetry every night here in Rivendell, lasting long until after the shadows of evening fall," the elf-lord told him. "Do not worry---you will enjoy them again soon enough."  
  
"I . . . I hope so," Frodo droned. "I'm sorry, Lord Elrond. You and Lady Arwen . . . should be there, instead of here . . . tending to me."  
  
"Nonsense, Ring-bearer," Arwen told him. "You have borne a great burden here to Imladris. We would not be anywhere else but here, helping you through such an illness."  
  
Frodo smiled weakly. "You're too . . . too kind. It's so . . . restful here. I wish I could stay here, where no evil comes, for a long time---it must be much like living in the Blessed Realm. But for us mortals, there is no escape."  
  
Arwen looked at him for long moments, her eyes seeming to shine through him, and then her lips curved into a bit of a smile as she reached out and stroked his cheek. "Yes, it is so, Frodo. But who knows what the future may hold for any of us. Do not fear. Now, it is time for more of your medication."  
  
Frodo cringed at the thought of the medicine---but by now he knew there was no way of getting around it and had stopped protesting, as it did not real good and only taxed his strength.   
  
"I will give it to him, Lady Arwen," Gandalf told her, taking the cup of treacle. "You have been here long already."   
  
Nodding, she stroked Frodo's hair and rose. "I will be back to check on you again soon, Ring-bearer," she said as she exited the door with her father.   
  
Frodo seemed to be shaking with chill and Gandalf wrapped the covers more tightly about him as he lifted Frodo's shoulders to place the cup to his lips. But as he sipped, the hobbit began to choke, and Gandalf had to sit him up all the way and pat his back rather roughly to ease the fit.   
  
Bilbo woke with a start at the sound of Frodo's coughing, popping up in his chair wide-eyed. "Is he all right, Gandalf? Frodo my dear---are you okay?"   
  
Frodo couldn't talk---his face was feeling strangely numb. He nodded and Gandalf answered in the affirmative instead. When the fit was over, Frodo sank back with a moan into the wizard's arms, spent, his midsection hurting.  
  
"Thank you . . . Gandalf," he whispered, finally able to get his mouth to work. "Bilbo . . . I'm all right."   
  
"Hmmm . . ." the wizard grunted. "Perhaps we should try that again, now. Just a bit . . . slowly so that you can keep it down, and then we shall give you more in a few minutes."   
  
This time the hobbit was able to take a few small sips---very slowly---before Gandalf helped him to lie back among the soft sheets. Frodo was grateful to lay down again and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out his stomach cramps and the fierce ache in his leg. He tried to rest but found it difficult---instead he opened his eyes and watched Bilbo swaying in the rocking chair by his bed. But the swaying movement of the rocker began to make him feel sick and he found his nausea rising again.   
  
He tried to hold it back---but his stomach had other ideas. Fortunately, Bilbo had seen him pale and had nudged Gandalf with the basin. As Frodo threw up, the basin was nicely under his chin as Gandalf rubbed his back to sooth him. When it was over, the wizard gave him a small drink of peppermint tea---but to Frodo's horror, he had difficulty keeping it in his mouth due to the numbness and most of came dribbling out of his mouth and dripped down his chin.  
  
The wizard sensed his difficulty and wiped his face with a wet cloth, reassuring him at the same time.   
  
"It will be all right, Frodo . . . you shall see. Elrond said you might have a bit of difficulty such as this from time to time---just relax and let it pass. Now," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "we shall have to get that sluggard Samwise Gamgee over there to fetch you some hot towels and a fresh nightshirt . . ."  
  
Frodo nodded wearily and allowed Gandalf to lay him back down, face glistening with sweat, his hair streaming in wet ringlets on the sheets. As he curled up tightly, belly aching, he heard the door opening again and Aragorn's voice. Dimly he was aware of Gandalf and Aragorn talking in hushed whispers---whispers they obviously did not want Frodo to hear---and of Bilbo's gnarled hand taking Frodo's own trembling one.  
  
To be continued 


	8. Darkness Descending

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION Part 8/?  
  
Author: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13 (It could be PG, I just put PG-13 for general creepiness and wee hobbit pain and suffering. A lot of it.) Angst. No slash, no sex, no language.   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. Contrary to many of my other stories, this fic contains NO slash and is written for the FrodoHealers! group on Yahoo.  
  
Feedback: I love it. Archiving: Feel free.  
  
***  
  
"Now, Pip, don't you go in there and talk Frodo's ear off, do you hear?" Merry whispered just before they entered the door to Frodo's room. "You do, and they won't let you in again."  
  
Pippin glared at his cousin. "Why, Meriadoc Brandybuck, you know me better than that. I wouldn't do anything to harm Frodo."  
  
Merry sighed. "Not intentionally, Pippin---but you *were* banned from his room for a time when he was very ill from his stab wound, remember? Just don't jump up on the bed this time---and try not to be too entertaining."  
  
Pippin rolled his eyes and nodded, and the two hobbits quietly entered.   
  
To Pippin's relief, only Sam and Aragorn were in the room at the moment, so he did not have to worry about Gandalf glaring at him under his bushy brows or Elrond crossing his arms and looking at him sternly whenever Pippin made so much as a squeak.   
  
Sam and the ranger were sitting on the bed efficiently sponging Frodo down with warm athelas water, keeping his small shivering body covered with a sheet to avoid chilling him. They gently folded the sheet back to expose each part of the hobbit as they worked. Pippin grimaced---he'd been given sponge baths when he was sick and always found it a bit humbling.   
  
But by the looks of his cousin, Frodo was at a point beyond caring. And indeed, Frodo was. The pain was afflicting him more often than not, and he was grateful for any type of relief. Now, he lay on his back amidst the piles of sheets and pillows, shockingly pale, his dark curls rather matted, and his blue eyes, which were staring at the ceiling, were weary with suffering. But he heard his two cousins approaching and turned his head toward them, his eyes narrowing as he did his best, unsuccessfully, to focus.   
  
"M . . Merry?" he voiced shakily, speaking with effort. "Pip?"  
  
"Yes, Frodo, it's us," Merry told him as he leaned over closer to the pale face, reaching for a hand to squeeze gently. It seemed that in the large bed, Frodo was rather far away. "How are you feeling? I know a mere snake bite can't keep a Baggins down."  
  
Frodo opened his mouth again to speak, catching his breath as a wave of pain washed through his belly. Sam and Aragorn momentarily paused in their sponging to pat and soothe him through the pain. "I've . . . felt better," Frodo said with a weak smile when it had passed. "Aragorn and . . . and Sam . . . are helping. The warmth . . . feels good." He blinked, trying to focus. "Shouldn't . . . shouldn't you two . . . be asleep? It's . . . late, isn't it?"  
  
Pippin smiled. "We did sleep for a time---it's very early morning, Frodo---not light outside yet. But we have nothing we have to do today, so we're in no hurry---I plan on having a lovely nap after our visit with you."  
  
"I . . . I see. Can't you . . . can't you two c-climb up here and . . . sit with me? I can b-barely see you over there. You're so . .. so far away."   
  
"But Frodo, won't that hurt your leg---jostling the bed, I mean?" Merry asked him, his eyes wide with fear at possibly causing his cousin more pain.   
  
"H-hurts anyway." The corners of Frodo's mouth turned up and he winced slightly as Aragorn washed his numb and tingling fingers. "I would . . . rather have you . . . here. B-Bilbo does it, when . . . wh . . . when Aragorn . . . boosts him up."  
  
"Well . . . if Aragorn says it is all right." Questioningly they looked at the ranger. Despite their misgivings that they might cause Frodo pain, Merry and Pippin *did* want to be near their cousin to offer comfort. When he had been ill with the Morgul-blade wound, it had seemed there was so little they could do. When they had been allowed into his room---which wasn't often the three days Frodo was the sickest---Frodo hadn't even been in his right mind enough to really know they were there.   
  
"Go ahead, Merry, Pippin---Frodo was asking where you were just a few minutes ago," Aragorn told them as he sponged down Frodo's uninjured leg. He smiled. "Climb up and keep him company---it will help to distract his mind from the pain." He paused, pointing to the bedside table stacked with medicine bottles and pitchers. "In fact, would one of you mind helping Frodo drink some of that liquid in the pitcher on the table? You'll have to give it to him in spoonfuls, and very slowly---he occasionally has a bit of difficulty swallowing."  
  
Pippin nodded and went to pour the golden drink out into a cup while Merry gingerly climbed up on the huge soft bed, leaning against the headboard. Moving the pillows out from under Frodo's head, Merry gently lifted Frodo's shoulders, trying to ignore his cousin's whimper of pain, and settled in behind him before gently easing Frodo to lay back against his chest. Frodo sighed . . . the warmth and reassurance of having someone holding him was soothing. It was childish, he thought absently to himself, but it was there, nonetheless.   
  
Aragorn, having seen Frodo's grimace at the mention of the golden liquid, reassured him. "It's not the treacle, Frodo---although it will be time for more of that in a bit---and stronger than what we have been previously dosing you with, I'm afraid. This is the drink Elrond prepared to keep you from becoming more dehydrated---it is water, honey, apple juice, and just a bit of salt and soda---and it will help you to feel better, little one." He looked up at Merry and Pippin as the youngest hobbit climbed up on the bed and handed the cup to Merry. "Make sure he drinks it," the ranger ordered, "small sips every few minutes or so. We're giving it to him around the clock."  
  
Taking the cup, Merry carefully spooned the bright liquid into Frodo's mouth, pausing as his cousin swallowed slowly, while Pippin settled himself at the head of the bed next to Merry, gently patting Frodo's shoulder.   
  
"How does it taste?" Merry asked him between spoonfuls. "Better than the treacle?"   
  
Nodding weakly, Frodo took another spoonful. It did taste fairly pleasant---quite sweet and a bit tangy, and wasn't too offensive to his stomach. "Anything . . . is . . . better than th-the treacle."   
  
"Yes, Mr. Frodo, but it will help you get well," Sam interjected as he smoothed a cloth over Frodo's neck and face. "And it can't be as bad as some of the stuff my gaffer used to give me---I well remember this red medicine that he used to give me and the pigs both . . . I still wonder . . ."  
  
"That's nothing, Sam," Pippin interrupted. "You should have seen the stuff my sisters used to make me take when I was sick . . ."   
  
A brief discussion followed as the three healthy hobbits compared notes to see who had been forced to ingest the most foul-tasting tonics and concoctions. Aragorn smiled at them as he grabbed a stack of towels, noting that Frodo seemed more than usually relaxed as he listened sleepily.   
  
Motioning for Merry to pause with his spoon-feeding, Aragorn and Sam gently turned Frodo over onto his side to wash and dry his back, grimacing at the sick hobbit's grunt of pain as they did so. Once Frodo lay on his side, Merry and Pippin saw for the first time Frodo's swollen leg in its entirety. Even with a bandage on it, the leg was still quite shocking to see. Pippin sucked his breath in, trying to still his fright and queasiness. He averted his eyes, but unfortunately, Frodo had heard his gasp.   
  
"It . . . it looks bad, I know." Frodo's soft voice reached his ears and his blue eyes glanced up, blinking, at Pippin. "I'm . . . I'm sorry you had to see it."   
  
Pippin flushed, embarrassed at his reaction. "No, cousin, no," he soothed, smoothing back Frodo's damp bangs. "Truly, it doesn't look nearly as bad as I had expected," he lied. Then he laughed. "Now, let me tell you about what Merry said today to that blond elf who's going on the journey with us . . . you won't believe this . . ."   
  
Frodo's lips curved up a bit as Pippin related his story, while Merry protested, his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. He took the spoon up again and coaxed it into Frodo, stopping a moment when his cousin began to choke, forcing Merry to lift him slightly and rub his back until the fit was over.  
  
Meanwhile, Aragorn and Sam finished drying Frodo and carefully sat him up away from Merry, easing a nightshirt over his head and lifting his hips to tug it down before settling him back to rest against Merry's chest. Placing the pillows back around Frodo's legs to keep the covers lifted up off his injury, Aragorn placed fresh hot-water bottles around the sick hobbit before pulling the sheets and comforters up and tucking Frodo in snugly. Closing his eyes, Frodo reveled for a moment at the feel of being clean---although he already felt himself sweating again.  
  
The cupful of golden liquid was nearly empty, Merry noted with satisfaction as he continued to hold his cousin. Despite the sponge bath, Frodo's skin felt damp and clammy again, and his eyelids drooped in exhaustion. Sam was cleaning up, picking up used towels, while Aragorn was evidently preparing more treacle or medicine of some sort.  
  
For his part, Frodo suddenly felt incredibly weak and dizzy . . . and he whimpered and tried to curl up as he felt the ever-present ache in his belly intensify. Merry held him tightly, soothing his dewy face with a wet cloth as Frodo closed his eyes and gasped at the pain. He was about to hand the damp towel to Pippin to rewet when he noticed a red streak marring the cloth. Quickly shifting Frodo, Merry bent down and looked at his cousin's pale face before immediately reapplying the towel to it with some pressure.   
  
"Strider!" Merry called, quite alarmed. "Frodo --- his nose is bleeding!"   
  
The ranger was at their side in a moment, Sam following, his brown eyes wide. Aragorn gently pulled the cloth away from Frodo's face to gauge the amount of bleeding. Thankfully, it did not look too bad---but Aragorn knew it was not an encouraging symptom. Quickly he pressed Frodo back further in Merry's arms and tilted the sick hobbit's head back. Frodo was gasping, each breath seeming to come as a sob, and Aragorn knew it was time for a strong dose of tea to ease his pain and restlessness.   
  
"Keep his head back and continue to apply pressure to his nose, Merry. There's no cause for alarm---Elrond told me this might happen." He tried to put on a more cheerful countenance as Frodo's eyes opened slightly, looking up at him with alarm. "It is all right, little one," Aragorn soothed as he pushed the hobbit's wet bangs back. "The poison affects the blood clotting, but this is just a minor symptom, it appears. I am going to tell Elrond, however. He will want to know about this immediately. We will both return in a few minutes."  
  
All four hobbits nodded---Frodo only slightly---and Aragorn had just turned to leave the room when suddenly, Frodo felt a blackness descend on him and he stiffened in Merry's arms. In an instant his body was out of his control, and as the other hobbits watched in horror, he arched his back and began to convulse, thrashing on the bed. Dimly he was aware of what was going but was powerless to stop it.   
  
"Strider, help him!" Sam pleaded as he watched his master. Turning, Aragorn saw Frodo seizing and rushed back to the bed, grabbing a towel and forcing the edge of it into Frodo's mouth so the hobbit didn't choke on his tongue.   
  
"He's having a seizure. Go get someone to fetch Elrond--now!" Aragorn ordered Pippin. Faster than he'd ever moved---maybe even faster than when the Nazgul were chasing---the youngest hobbit was out the door.   
  
A moment later, Frodo shuddered one last time and with a low moan not unlike that of a small wounded animal he went limp, his body once again wet with sweat. He whimpered as he began to shake with weakness, the numbness in his hands and feet growing worse. Aragorn and Merry quickly turned him onto his side as the semi-conscious hobbit vomited into a basin under his chin, and Sam was right beside them with a clean wet cloth with which to wipe his master's face.   
  
Frodo opened his glazed eyes for just a moment and regarded them tearfully. "W . . . what h-happened?" he mouthed weakly, but then a fierce agony clutched at him with dark fingers, and trying to quell the sob that escaped him, he passed out before they could answer.   
  
To be continued 


	9. Elrond's Decision

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION Part 9/?  
  
Author: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13 (It could be PG, I just put PG-13 for general creepiness and wee hobbit pain and suffering. A lot of it.) Angst. No slash, no sex, no language.   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. Contrary to many of my other stories, this fic contains NO slash and is written for the FrodoHealers! group on Yahoo. And I'm sure I don't have to say that the medicinal treatments are purely fictional---don't try this at home.  
  
Feedback: I love it. Archiving: Feel free.  
  
Thank you so much to everyone for the reviews!! I hope to have the next part up before Saturday, but if not, it will likely be next week as I'll be out of town.  
  
  
***  
  
Elrond rose from examining his small patient and turned to his foster son, sparing a brief glance for the other scared hobbits in the corner of the room. The sleeping chamber was quiet---almost ominously so---the only noise that of the Ring-bearer's uneasy breathing as he drifted somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Since his seizure only a little while before, Frodo had been semi-conscious at best.   
  
"Send Sam and Meriadoc and Peregrin out," Elrond bade Aragorn in a low voice the others could not hear. His expression was not encouraging, and the ranger regarded his foster father with some surprise, his brows knitting together in a frown.   
  
"His condition is that grave? Surely . . ."  
  
Shaking his head, Elrond cut him off as they both turned to look at Frodo. He lay on his side---to avoid the danger of choking should he throw up again---clutching fistfuls of the blankets. His skin was ashen and sweat-soaked, even though the others had sponged him off again just before Elrond had arrived. A large towel lay just under his cheek in case his nose began bleeding again---Aragorn had been forced to ease Frodo's head back and have Merry apply a towel with a bit of pressure to staunch it after the seizure.   
  
"His condition *is* worsening," Elrond continued. "As you can see, the pain is greater, and the nosebleed was not a good sign---his blood is being affected. That means the poison will begin to invade his internal organs and eventually paralyze him, leading to a cessation of breating and death. But, his condition is not irreversible yet."  
  
Aragorn took this news in. "But how do we stop it? By giving him more treacle?"   
  
"Yes---a stronger version of it. Let us just hope he can continue to swallow adequately. It is my fault we must be aggressive now---I was loathe to risk more of the treacle because of possible side effects, and now, because he is a halfling, the poison is gaining hold. If he were a man, he would surely fare much better with this particular grievance." In an uncharacteristic gesture, the elf-lord ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "How is it that we can cure him of a Morgul-blade wound and yet not a snake bite, which should be very simple?"  
  
It was a rhetorical question, but one Aragorn felt compelled to answer anyway. "You said it yourself, Elrond. He is a small patient---it is very difficult to judge the amount of medication to administer."  
  
At that moment Frodo stirred a bit, his awareness returning somewhat. The vertigo and pain was overwhelming and he moaned slightly, curling up more. He did not open his eyes----could not see clearly anyway, but his ears still worked perfectly, and he could hear whispers several feet away---someone discussing his fate, he was certain. The low voices made him nervous, as if he was on his deathbed.   
  
The thought made him gulp, which was a mistake, as then he began choking a bit. Maybe he *was* dying---and he just did not know it, for no one would tell a dying hobbit he was dying. At least not in the Shire---in the Shire, the deathly ill were to be spared bad news for as long as possible.   
  
Frodo burrowed deeper into his pillows, trying to shut the whispering voices out---but then a dizzying nausea hit and the next thing he or anyone else knew, he was vomiting again, soaking his bedclothes before the others could react quickly enough.  
  
Aragorn and Elrond were at his side in an instant, Elrond lifting his head to make certain he did not choke and Aragorn grabbing a basin. When it was over, Elrond wiped Frodo's face with a wet cloth and managed to get him to swallow a sip or two of ginger tea. After Frodo had, Aragorn gently gathered the hobbit up for a moment so the others could strip the sheets off the bed and replace them. Frodo objected to being lifted---it was painful, and he moaned loudly.   
  
"Just one moment, Frodo," the ranger told him, "and then you can lie down again."  
  
Soon the bed was ready---thanks to one elf-lord and three handy hobbits who had not bothered to call the housekeeper---and Aragorn deposited Frodo back onto the bed on his side. The hobbit was extremely groggy and was having a difficult time keeping his eyes open.  
  
"No," Elrond told him, "lay him on his back for now---he has been lying on that side for too long, and it will be easier later, with him in this position. Although," he added ruefully, "if previous incidents are any indication, he will only turn over again to make the pain easier to bear."  
  
Aragorn looked up at his foster-father as he gently arranged Frodo on the bed, grabbing the hot water bottles and handing them off to Sam. "Later, you say?" he asked as he unbuttoned the hobbit's nightshirt and gently began to ease it off. "I am assuming this has to do with the reason you asked me to send the hobbits out earlier."  
  
Elrond nodded as sat on the edge of the bed and took Frodo's wrist, checking his pulse, then felt the hobbit's chest and face to gauge his temperature. "Yes, it does indeed. I shall tell you in a moment." His eyes clearly showed that he did not want to discuss the subject in Frodo's vicinity. Looking up, he spotted the two he had been looking for, over in the corner, trying to stay unobtrusive and out of the way to avoid being sent out of the room.   
  
"Ah, Meriadoc and Peregrin . . . come here for a moment," Elrond called to them. "Meriadoc, please give Frodo more of the liquid you were administering earlier and clothe him in a fresh gown. Peregrin, you may assist. But leave the covers off of his injured leg---it will hurt far too grievously with the pressure of bedclothes. Aragorn and I have something to discuss."  
  
Pleased to be able to take care of their cousin, the hobbits complied, and Elrond walked away from the bed, Aragorn following.   
  
At last Elrond was ready to speak.   
  
"I will immediately go prepare a very strong dose of the treacle to give to Frodo. However . . . it is not only the poison that worries me. His leg is looking worse and the pressure from the swelling will eventually cause tissue death. If that happens . . . I think I need not tell you what the end result could be."  
  
The ranger nodded, his eyes grim. "He would lose his leg."  
  
"Indeed," said Elrond, turning to face Aragorn with a weary expression. "That is why we must prevent it. Send the hobbits out when they have finished tending to Frodo, Aragorn---I will need your assistance and my daughter's as well."  
  
"What do you propose to do?"   
  
"There is a simple but delicate procedure that should greatly reduce the pressure from the swelling, thereby saving the leg and enhancing recovery. But it involves making an incision in his leg and will not be pretty. And unfortunately, we cannot give him any long-lasting sedative herbs for it---it is too dangerous in his condition and imperative that he remain awake so that we can continue dosing him with the treacle. However, the cutting will not take long, and with your and Arwen's help, I am hoping he will feel little."  
  
Aragorn's eyes widened at the idea, but he knew better than to question his foster-father. "You are the master healer, Elrond. Do as you think best. However," and here he cast his eyes down a bit in thought, "I think you perhaps underestimate the support given to Frodo by his young friends. We have all seen that they help him bear the pain better. And they have seen worse----on the Road here, and still have worse things to see yet on the journey. He may cope better with them nearby."  
  
Elrond considered for a moment and then shook his head, remembering young Peregrin's antics while Frodo was recovering from his earlier injury. "All the reason to spare them such as we can now. No, I will work better without them in the room, I am afraid. And he is comforted by you and Arwen---I daresay he is used to being tended by you now. And Gandalf as well---I shall seek him out."  
  
"I will tell them, Elrond."   
  
With a nod, the elf-lord left to prepare, and Aragorn went reluctantly to explain to Sam, who had returned with the water bottles, and Merry and Pippin, who had gotten Frodo cleaned up and settled in again, about the procedure Elrond was about to perform. Aragorn knew he needed to explain it to Frodo as well, but a glance at the hobbit told him that Frodo was in no condition to understand at the moment. His eyes were closed and he looked to actually be resting, although his breathing was still heavy from the pain and his face and hair dewy.   
  
Looking at him, Aragorn shook his head and prayed that the treacle would work---and quickly. He gathered the three other hobbits with a glance and they came to him, their faces creased with worry.   
  
"What is it, Strider, that you have to pull us away from Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked, indignant. "He's in a lot of pain just now---I'll not be leaving him all alone over there."  
  
"Easy, Sam," the ranger chided. "This will only take a moment." Briefly and succinctly, he told them of their friend's condition and what Elrond was about to do.   
  
Pippin's face paled considerably. "He's not going to cut Frodo's leg off, is he?" the hobbit asked, his voice nearly a whisper.   
  
"No, no, Pippin---this is just a precautionary measure. With luck, Frodo's leg will heal quite normally. And it will only be a small cut---in the long run, it will lessen the pain he is feeling."  
  
Three pairs of eyes looked at him skeptically. Aragorn sighed. Two months ago, in the Shire, the hobbits would have accepted someone's word without question. A dangerous journey to Rivendell had cost them much of their naivete.   
  
"I promise,"Aragorn told them again, "this is the best thing to do to make him better. I cannot say at the moment what the prognosis is for Frodo . . . none of us can. But if anyone knows what he is doing, it is Elrond. Now, I am very sorry, but you must leave for a bit. Elrond's wishes. I tried to convince him otherwise, but to no avail, and one does not argue with Elrond in matters of healing."  
  
"Leave?" Sam asked, his voice a whisper. "Won't Mr. Frodo need someone with him during this?"  
  
"Yes," Merry chimed in, "is it . . . is it going to hurt him badly?"  
  
"It is a quick procedure, and Arwen and I will be there to assist and help ease his pain. We'll give him something to make him groggy for a time as well. Do not worry--- we shall take good care of Frodo. It will all be over shortly and then you can see him again."   
  
The three hobbits nodded, going reluctantly out the door with a backward glance at their sick cousin, and Aragorn went back to Frodo's side.   
  
  
To be continued 


	10. Fighting the Fears

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION, PART 10  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13 (It could be PG, I just put PG-13 for general creepiness and wee hobbit pain and suffering. A LOT of it.) Angst. No slash, no sex, no language.   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. Contrary to many of my other stories, this fic contains NO slash and is written for the FrodoHealers! group on Yahoo. And I'm sure I don't have to say that the medicinal treatments are purely fictional---don't try this at home.  
  
Feedback: I love it. Archiving: Feel free.  
  
  
***  
  
The Dark Lord was having his way with him, Frodo told himself fretfully. Everyone knew serpents were a sign of evil from the time of Morgoth; a signal of terrible darkness that stretched back thousands of years. And now, Sauron had managed, in some way, to extend his nefarious powers to the valley of Rivendell. He was out to get one small hobbit, the Ring-bearer, and Frodo felt sure he would likely succeed this time.   
  
Softly spoken words reached his ear as someone gently brushed his cheek. "Frodo, I'm sorry, but you have to wake up a bit and finish drinking this---steady now."   
  
The hobbit opened his eyes and blinked---Aragorn's voice. But the man sitting on the bed holding him up and spooning a vile concoction into him was just a blur of dark and light and Frodo squinted, trying to focus, his breathing labored from fighting the pain.   
  
"Concentrate on swallowing, Frodo," Aragorn urged as he brushed the hobbit's wet bangs back. "I know it's hard, but do not think of anything else. You have to take this---it will make you better." The ranger gently eased the spoon between the tiny lips, waiting several seconds before Frodo swallowed, not without difficulty. His mouth and tongue were partly numb and it had taken Aragorn the better part of a half-hour to get a small cup of this new, very concentrated treacle down Frodo. The ranger hated to force it on him---was afraid Frodo would throw it up again---but they could not afford to waste too much time.   
  
He wondered if it would not be better to sedate Frodo a bit more and had voiced this to Elrond. Frodo might not be able to swallow more treacle while asleep, but he would be more likely to keep down what he did take in. And Elrond had agreed that if the vomiting grew worse, it would be necessary. But the elf lord was very hesitant to do so, as putting the hobbit to sleep in his precarious condition was risky.   
  
Aragorn sighed, wearily pushing his hair back off his face and wishing he could undo the picnic. Who could have foreseen such a thing happening so soon after Frodo's earlier injury? This gentle hobbit, of all people, did not deserve such ill luck.   
  
Frodo choked on the treacle and Aragorn sat him up against his chest and rubbed his back until the coughing fit ceased before laying him back in his arms again and resuming the spoon-feeding. Luckily, the cup was almost empty. Only one more to go for the present. But Frodo was feeling uncooperative and tried to turn his face away.   
  
"N . . . no," he managed, his speech coming out slurred. "I'm . . . I'm . . . tired . . ." He wished they would all leave him alone and let him die in peace. His body was a mass of pain---his leg was on fire and his belly and back and head a constant, throbbing ache. The only parts that did not ache or burn, Frodo was certain, were his elbows and perhaps the ankle of his uninjured leg. And he was afraid he was going to vomit any moment and undo all of Aragorn's hard work.   
  
"I know," Aragorn said gently as he turned Frodo's face back toward him. "I wish we could stop with this, but we must get it down you, I'm afraid. But we're halfway there."   
  
Looking down at the hobbit's pale, sweat-soaked face, he paused. "Frodo . . . Frodo, listen to me." When the blue eyes had managed to focus on him, Aragorn continued. "In a bit, Elrond is going to work on your leg to help ease the pain and swelling. We'll give you something to help with the discomfort, but we cannot put you to sleep because that would be too dangerous in your condition. But it should not take long. Do you understand?"  
  
The hobbit nodded weakly, trembling and swallowing more treacle before whispering, "C . . . cut it? P . . . please . . . don't . . ."  
  
Seeing the fear in the blue eyes, the ranger realized Frodo probably expected the worst---that Elrond was planning to amputate his leg. Hastily Aragorn reassured him. "It's a simple procedure, Frodo---it will help your leg heal faster---we'll not be doing more than that, I promise."  
  
Frodo relaxed a bit, but his eyes had widened at Aragorn's words and he had to hold back his shameful tears. His leg was bad, then. He wondered if what they were going to do was going to hurt abominably. Most likely. Even in his very sick state, Frodo had not ignored Aragorn's use of the word "discomfort." In the Shire, "discomfort" was a euphemism for agonizing pain. Getting stitches, having a tooth pulled--or even giving birth, according to his Aunt Esmeralda, who liked to talk about such personal things in great detail, much to Frodo's horror---all caused just a bit of "discomfort."  
  
His mind was brought back to the present by a spoon making its way into his mouth and he sputtered, forcing Aragorn to again lift him. As he did, Frodo caught sight of his leg---Merry had left the covers off of it---and was dismayed to see that it looked even more swollen than before; the discoloration further advanced nearly up his knee. The hobbit's stomach lurched, and seeing him pale, Aragorn immediately lowered him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead and easing a drop of peppermint syrup onto his tongue.  
  
"Try to hold it in if you can, Frodo . . . we don't want that treacle coming back up if you can help it."  
  
Sweating, the hobbit nodded and was able to quell it just in time. "M . . . ah right," he gasped, shuddering as a sudden wave of pain and dizziness coursed through him. He moaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut, as Aragorn sponged his face and chest, whispering soothing words in Elvish. But Frodo was allowed to lay peacefully only a few moments---when the spasm had passed, the ranger began the slow process of spooning more treacle into the ailing body.   
  
***  
  
Four pairs of eyes watched Gandalf as he strode down the hall toward Frodo's room. Stopping outside the door, the wizard gazed at the hobbits sitting impatiently twiddling their thumbs and clenching their hands, their legs dangling off chairs too tall for them.   
  
"Such long faces," he remarked, eyeing them in turn. "Did Master Elrond send you out of the room?"  
  
Merry spoke up first. "Yes, sir. He's going to operate on Frodo's leg."  
  
"And we were in the way," Pippin chimed in sadly.   
  
"I didn't want to be leavin' Mr. Frodo, Mr. Gandalf, sir," Sam said softly, looking up at the wizard with liquid brown eyes. "But Master Elrond said he could concentrate better with less of us in the room, so here we are."  
  
Gandalf's eyebrows drew together, noticing that Bilbo, who had crept up to join the others some time ago, said nothing. The old hobbit just sat with his hands clutching his cane, his slightly crinkled face careworn and weary. Bilbo wanted to be with Frodo, but he knew better than to try to change Elrond's mind when it came to such things.   
  
"Hmmmph," Gandalf grunted. "I shall go in and see if I have any better luck. Although Elrond might very well toss me out on my proverbial ear as well." He tried to smile, patting Bilbo's shoulder. "Do not worry---and if there is any news, I will be certain to report it."  
  
"Thank you, Gandalf," Bilbo said under his breath, and the others nodded.   
  
Opening the door, the wizard quietly slipped in, surveying the scene. A kettle boiled on the hearth and towels and instruments had been laid out on a table nearby. A drowsy Frodo was positioned on his back near the edge of the bed, his swollen leg elevated on pillows. And from the looks of it, he was experiencing another nosebleed. Arwen sat next to his head, keeping it eased back and talking quietly with Aragorn as she held a cloth to the hobbit's nose. Hearing footsteps, Frodo turned his head slightly, whimpering as he did so and shifting restlessly. Both Arwen and Aragorn stopped their conversation and leaned over him, trying to soothe him into keeping still.  
  
Gandalf tore his eyes away and spotted Elrond draping towels over Frodo's leg in preparation. He was also placing them on the mattress under the limb. He nodded to Gandalf in greeting as the wizard spoke.  
  
"How is Frodo? I see his nose is bleeding again."  
  
The elf lord sighed. "We are hoping this new treacle will halt the poison. We have one more dose to give him just after this is finished---but it will be a while before we know if it is working. I am optimistic, however."  
  
"And this procedure---he is awake, Elrond. Can you not put him to sleep for this?"   
  
"I wish we could, Gandalf, but we dare not risk it. We have given him a tonic to help, however. And I have something that will numb the leg a bit." Obviously preoccupied, Elrond cut the conversation short and sat down upon a stool next to Frodo's bed, looking at Arwen. "Daughter, stay with him and do what you can to ease his pain. This should not take too long." At her nod, Aragorn stationed himself next to Elrond to assist while Gandalf took the chair by Frodo's bed, trying to stay out of the way.   
  
To be continued 


	11. Strength and Suffering

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION, PART 11/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13 (It could be PG, I just put PG-13 for general creepiness and wee hobbit pain and suffering. A LOT of it.) Angst. No slash, no sex, no language.   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. Contrary to many of my other stories, this fic contains NO slash and is written for the FrodoHealers! group on Yahoo. And I'm sure I don't have to say that the medical treatments are purely fictional---don't try this at home.  
  
And to everyone who asks, no, Frodo will not die in this fic, I *promise*!!!  
  
Feedback: I love it. Archiving: Feel free.  
  
  
***  
  
The atmosphere in Frodo's room was almost *too* quiet, Elrond thought to himself as he swabbed a greenish liquid over the swollen and discolored area of Frodo's leg. It would numb the area some, but not by much. Outside, even the usual sound of birdsong and rushing waterfalls seemed far away and for a moment, the elf lord actually considered calling Pippin in simply to lighten the mood. But no, there was serious work to be done and all of his skills would be needed.  
  
Frodo flinched a bit but otherwise showed no sign of additional pain at Elrond's touch. But Elrond knew the hobbit was in constant pain now, although he was hopeful that the green numbing liquid and a tonic they had given Frodo earlier would help. His patient's eyes were closed, but by the wheezing noises he made as he breathed, it was obvious he was not fully asleep. His head rested on a pillow in Arwen's lap as she kept one hand on his brow, smoothing the matted hair back, while dabbing his face with a towel. Pillows had been strategically placed so that Frodo couldn't see his leg.   
  
Aragorn, standing at Elrond's side with water and other liquids to sluice the leg and towels to soak up blood, unwrapped a freshly boiled knife from its linens and handed it to Elrond, who bent to begin the delicate procedure.   
  
"Hold on now, Frodo," the elf lord said loudly to make certain the hobbit heard him, "I am about to begin. I know you are strong and able to bear it, little master. The pain will be over quickly, I assure you."  
  
The hobbit nodded woozily, opening his eyes as he clutched at his sweat-soaked bedclothes. Elrond had faith in him, and he was determined to bear it stoically---they were only doing what was best for him, he knew. But nevertheless, he dreaded it and wondered if he would die and never see his friends again, or Bilbo. Where was Bilbo? Since Frodo could not focus clearly, he was not altogether certain who was in the room. "B . . . Bilbo?" he slurred, his voice quaking.   
  
Gandalf leaned forward in his chair, wishing he was close enough to touch Frodo. "Bilbo is waiting just outside, Frodo," he answered softly, with a glance at Elrond. "He will be in to see you when this is over." He sighed, listening to the soft voices of Elrond and Aragorn as they spoke.   
  
"Get ready . . ."   
  
"Might need to . . ."   
  
As Elrond began to make the incision, Frodo jerked and was unable to stifle a small cry, and the elf lord was forced to pause as his patient squirmed. "Arwen, do what you can to get him to settle down," Elrond commanded, his voice harsh but his eyes pitying. "He must not move too much as I do this."  
  
The elf maid moved both of her hands to Frodo's forehead, closing her eyes and concentrating harder, and Frodo's breathing eased a bit. Elrond resumed and the hobbit squeezed his eyes shut, his face set in a rictus of pain, as he fought to keep still. But a sudden wave of nausea hit him like a brick and he moaned loudly, causing Elrond to stop again as he realized his small patient was about to be sick. Arwen just managed to lift his shoulders and turn him toward her, placing a basin under his mouth, as he threw up. Luckily, it appeared that he had mostly vomited the clear liquids he had been given last, not the treacle.   
  
Shaking, Frodo allowed Arwen to settle him back and wipe his face and chest down. Part of him knew he needed to be embarrassed---he had vowed not to do anything so unseemly in front of the elf maiden---but he was too sick to care anymore and closed his eyes, letting her tend to him.   
  
But now he had to focus on remaining still and trying to ride this out---he had to---and he felt for one of his hot water bottles and picked it up, clutching it with white knuckles to his chest, just to have something to hold on to. "B . . . Bilbo?"   
  
Gandalf rose to go to the other side of the bed and soothe the hobbit. But no---one other would be even better. "Elrond," Gandalf said, watching the small patient's face contort, "perhaps it would be best to let Bilbo in. His presence would not ease the pain, but it might comfort Frodo."  
  
His compassion winning out over his logic, Elrond nodded. "Very well . . . ask him in if he wishes it."  
  
***  
  
The four hobbits in the hallway had began to engage in a light, rather stilted conversation to drown out their nervousness and any sound effects they might hear issuing from Frodo's room.   
  
Finally Pippin could stand no more talk of the best way to plant tulip bulbs and who had the best ale in the Northfarthing. Restless, he stood up and put his hand on his hips.   
  
"This is making me cracked. I can't stand it---Frodo's in there in pain and there's nothing we can do. I feel like I'm back to where I was a week ago or so when they pried that mortal-Morgul-whatever-it-is thing out of him."  
  
Merry, just as troubled, tried to reassure him. "They're taking good care of Frodo, Pip. We'll be let back in soon enough."  
  
Sam was staring at the floor, trying not to think about what Frodo was going through. Finally he met the others' eyes, except for Bilbo, who was still exceptionally quiet and examining his weskit buttons with intense interest. "Do any of you remember what happened to Mosco Burrows? It wasn't the same sort o' snake as bit Mr. Frodo, was it, do you think?"  
  
Pippin shook his head. "I remember hearing about Mosco, but was still very young when he died."  
  
This time Bilbo spoke up, his words quiet. "I remember little Mosco. You recall his father and I were good friends at one time. Frodo had only been living with me at Bag End a couple of years when Mosco was bitten. Never did know what type it was . . . but . . ." and here his voice caught, "he died an agonizing death I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Poor Frodo went with me to visit him and had terrible nightmares for days after. And now . . ." The old hobbit lowered his head in his hands for a moment, then raised his head, sniffing. "Well, Frodo will be all right. He has to be."   
  
He dabbed at his eyes a bit with a handkerchief. "They buried little Mosco out back of their hole. Milo was never the same after that---became a recluse and stopped having any contact with anyone. I wrote him many letters, but he never answered."  
  
Suddenly the door to Frodo's room opened and all four hobbits jumped, startled, as Gandalf stuck his head out. "Bilbo, if you would come in, Frodo . . ."  
  
The old hobbit's heart clenched in fear and he raised a hand to his mouth, gasping, thinking he was going to pass out. "No, Gandalf, please . . ."   
  
But the wizard shook his head, smiling. "No, no, Bilbo, Frodo is holding his own. He has been asking for you, and so Elrond agreed to let you---just you, I'm afraid---come in to sit with him. That is, if you wish it. I must prepare you---he is in quite some pain and this operation is not pretty."  
  
"Yes, yes, of course I will come in, Gandalf. I've been sitting in this hallway waiting for what seems like forever. Frodo needs me." Standing, Bilbo shuffled as quickly as he could into the room. With small smile to the other hobbits in the hall, the wizard followed.   
  
To be continued 


	12. An Operation Complete

Once inside the room Bilbo made straight for Frodo's bed, averting his eyes from the bloodied towels and other medical paraphernalia about Elrond as he worked. He desperately wanted to comfort Frodo but felt a bit out of place---everyone looked so very serious. Glancing up at the advancing hobbit, Elrond spoke.   
  
"Ah, Master Bilbo---would you be so good as to settle on the bed next to Frodo . . . your nearness would no doubt assist in easing him."  
  
"Of course, of course . . . oh, thank you, Gandalf," Bilbo said as the wizard hoisted him up. Frodo's bed was rather high off the ground, and an elderly hobbit such as Bilbo had not quite the strength to climb upon it unaided.   
  
Slowly, so as not to jostle the frail body lying before him, Bilbo scooted close to Frodo and curled his body about the younger hobbit's; Arwen still sat on the other side with Frodo's head pillowed in her lap, toweling off his sweat-soaked face. Bilbo eyed his heir with pity as he gently pried the hot water bottle out of Frodo's white-knuckled hands so that he could take the cold fingers in his own.   
  
Opening his eyes, the younger hobbit eyed Bilbo woozily, his mouth working to form words. When he finally forced the words out, they were no more than a slight whisper. "B. . . Bil. . . bo?"   
  
"Yes, I'm here with you now, dear boy," Bilbo soothed, curling his hand about Frodo's. "It shall all be over soon—you'll see. Master Elrond knows what he is doing."   
  
Frodo didn't answer; he simply squeezed the old hobbit's hand back weakly and closed his eyes. Bilbo looked up at Arwen for a moment and their eyes met as they smiled wanly at each other, both intensely concerned for Ring-bearer's well-being.   
  
With a stern look at the others and a "Ready, everyone?" Elrond bent to his task.   
  
Again Frodo was unable to hold back his soft cries, which were muffled somewhat as he tried to curl up and press his face into his pillows. "No, little one," Arwen cooed as she gently held him down. "You must lie still---it will go much more quickly that way."  
  
He nodded . . . vaguely recalling his earlier resolve to remain silent and still despite his suffering. But it hurt so badly . . . surely he would not escape from this alive. Little six-year-old Mosco Burrows had not. Frodo had accompanied Bilbo to Mosco's bedside just a day after the wee hobbit had been bitten in the forearm by a snake. The child, curious as all hobbit-children are, had thrust his arm down a hole in the ground to see what was down there.   
  
After the bite, his arm had swelled up terribly---as Frodo's leg recently had---and Mosco had lain for days in a drug-induced haze, fighting the pain and failing miserably. But little Mosco had no Elrond Halfelven of Rivendell or Aragorn to help him, and the Shire doctors were unable to reverse the effects of the toxins. Frodo had sat by his bedside, wiping the little one's brow, as Mosco breathed his last breath. Nightmares had haunted Frodo for days after that. Mosco had been buried in his parents' backyard, under a large maple tree.   
  
Dimly Frodo wondered what type of funeral he would be if he died from this---would he be entombed---with one simple word on his crypt, "Ring-bearer"? Or would they bury him in a nice shady spot in the Pine-Woods---near the same place he had met his fate when bitten by the snake?  
  
Perhaps, he considered as he lay panting from the pain, they would simply cart his body back to the Shire and bury him under the Party Tree . . . that would be nice---and the hobbit-children would lay yellow roses and waterlilies on his grave . . .   
  
Frodo came back to himself a bit at the sound of voices, realizing he had arched his back up and uttered a loud wail and that Arwen was trying to gently shush him. "H. . . hurts," he moaned softly as he squirmed, causing nearly everyone in the room to sigh.   
  
"It will all be over very soon, Frodo," Arwen whispered, smoothing his hair back as she ran a towel over his ashen features, wiping down his forehead, nose, and chin and imparting as much of her own strength to him as she could. From his position on the stool, Elrond looked over at them sharply.   
  
"Daughter, make certain you keep an eye on his pulse . . ."  
  
"Yes, father."  
  
"Estel, if you would hold that there for me . . . that's it . . . Bilbo, please attempt to keep him from moving . . . "  
  
"Just one moment, Elrond, allow me to soak that . . ."  
  
"That's better . . . he is no longer struggling so . . ."  
  
In his chair, Gandalf had his head bowed and it was all Bilbo could do to keep the food in his stomach as he pressed his upper body to the other hobbit's chest to keep him immobile. He snuck a quick peek at Frodo's leg and shut his eyes tightly to keep the tears from spilling. Just the stack of bloodied towels next to Elrond alone was extremely disquieting. And for all their professionalism, Elrond's and Aragorn's tight expressions were ample evidence of their concern and worry.  
  
A short while later---though to the others it felt like an eternity---the elf lord put his knife down, wiped his hands on a towel, and rose, looking at the fragile hobbit on the bed and leaving Aragorn to sluice the green liquid over the wound as he walked to Frodo's side. His patient's eyes were glazed with unshed tears as he stared at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open.   
  
"It is done, Frodo," Elrond announced softly as the blue eyes shifted to gaze on him, a bit fearful. Reaching down, the elf lord stroked the hobbit's soft cheek. "Aragorn is going to place more poultices upon the wound and will bandage it very lightly. It will be sore---likely very sore, but once the pain of the incision dissipates, you will find it will hurt much less than it does presently. It may need stitches later perhaps, but we shall see."  
  
Elrond leaned over Frodo, and Bilbo, wiping his own sweating brow, moved aside and out of the way. The elf lord carefully checked all of Frodo's vital signs: taking his pulse, feeling the temperature of his skin, and folding back the covers and gently palpating his belly. Frodo whimpered as he did so, trying to draw away, and Arwen whispered soothing words in Elvish until he stilled. Finally, Elrond laid his hands on Frodo's brow as he shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. Several seconds passed before he exhaled and looked at the others in the room.   
  
"He is still suffering from the effects of the poison," he told them, "but it appears we are very close to a reversal. We must give him another dose of the treacle, and we can but hope that will remedy his symptoms and bring about recovery."  
  
There were sighs of relief heard around the room at this possible glimmer of hope, and Bilbo said a silent prayer in his mind. He had not felt so old or weary since . . . since Drogo and Primula's death, after which Frodo---only a small fry at that time---had been inconsolable. Indeed, the most wearing moments of his life, the old hobbit recalled as he stroked his heir's dark locks, had come during times when Frodo's health was at stake.   
  
"You're going to pull through this, my lad," he whispered, leaning close to Frodo's ear. "I just know it." In response, Frodo's eyes shut slowly and his lips, though mostly numb, managed to curve up just the tiniest bit.   
  
To be continued 


	13. Harried Assurances

Aragorn, with Elrond back at his side, finished up cleansing Frodo's leg and placed a light bandage over the wound. The hobbit did his best not to flinch too much---although it still hurt terribly. He hoped he didn't need stitches in the wound . . . he was so tired of pain, so very tired . . . he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Arwen soothing his brow with a cool cloth.   
  
"I'll be done in just a moment, Frodo," Aragorn told him easily, "and then we shall get you washed and into fresh linens so that you may rest comfortably. How does that sound?"  
  
It was a rhetorical question, and no one expected an answer, but Frodo tried anyway, mumbling something quite unintelligible. Aragorn chuckled as he tied the bandage off and he and Elrond began to dispose of the bloody towels. The mood in the room suddenly felt a bit lighter, for which everyone was grateful.   
  
Gandalf leaned forward in his chair to peer at Frodo, smiling at the sleepy hobbit. "Well, Master Baggins, I would definitely say . . ."  
  
The wizard's words were abruptly cut off and everyone's heads jerked up as Frodo suddenly let loose a loud cry, his eyes rolling upward. As the air rushed from his lungs he fell completely limp, but just moments later his entire body stiffened and he arched his head back into his pillow.   
  
"Another seizure," Elrond commented, his voice grave, as he and Aragorn both rushed to the head of the bed, Gandalf also rising. Arwen quickly inserted a towel into Frodo's mouth as the hobbit twitched and began to jerk spasmodically, his face turning slightly blue.   
  
Bilbo was beside himself, his eyes wide as saucers and his hands shaking. "Do something for him!" he snapped. Although he knew children often suffered febrile seizures, he had never witnessed a convulsion in a full-grown hobbit. The violent tremors nearly seemed to shake Frodo apart. "He needs help!"  
  
Elrond looked up at him, his voice stern. "Mind your panic, Bilbo. And do not try to restrain him---it will cease in a moment."  
  
Indeed, a minute or two later, just as Bilbo was about to raise his voice again despite the elf lord's assurances, Frodo's little body relaxed and he fell limply onto the bed and Arwen's lap, his eyes closed, as saliva issued from his mouth.   
  
He began to choke and Elrond and Aragorn swiftly flipped him onto his side; the elf lord inserting a finger into Frodo's mouth, clearing his airway, as Aragorn slipped a basin under the patient's chin in case Frodo vomited. During it all Arwen still held the hobbit's head pillowed on her lap as she sponged his now-slightly-less-blue face with a damp towel.  
  
As expected Frodo began to retch, throwing up for long minutes before surrendering to dry heaves. Finally, when the others in the room could barely stand to witness the torture, it stopped and the hobbit lay breathing heavily, moaning, his body drenched with sweat. Elrond checked his vital signs while the others watched, their eyes wide. "He is stable at present," he told them, "but he must imbibe another dose of the treacle very soon. And he must be kept on his side in case he vomits again. Daughter, if you would continue to hold his head while we tend to him, that may make things easier . . ."  
  
Carefully Elrond removed the hobbit's hot water bottles and folded the sweat-soaked covers and topsheet away from Frodo. The front of the hobbit's gown and the mattress beneath his hips were soaked with wetness.  
  
"Oh, my poor lad," Bilbo breathed, stroking the younger hobbit's hair from where he sat behind him. "Please don't tell him he wet the bed---it would embarrass the dear boy terribly. Always has been sensitive about such things."  
  
Elrond nodded. "The loss of bladder control is quite normal with a seizure such as this. He should not be embarrassed---there is no shame in being ill. We shall have to pad the mattress, as it is no doubt soaked through now." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then leaned over and began to unbutton Frodo's nightshirt.   
  
But the hobbit had other ideas about being undressed. "N . . . no," he slurred, opening his eyes and folding his arms in front of his chest to deny the elf lord access.  
  
"Frodo, calm down," Elrond said gently. "We are trying to help you."  
  
"Frodo my lad?" Bilbo ventured, but there was no response, and he looked up at Elrond, his face a mask of concern. "Is he all right?"  
  
"He will likely be disoriented for a good while, Bilbo, but will return to normal in a few hours." Elrond leaned down again, and again, Frodo swatted his hands away weakly. "Aragorn, Arwen, Bilbo . . . please see if you have better luck attending to him," the elf lord instructed, sighing. "I shall go prepare the last dose of treacle and be back shortly." He paused. "And I will send the remaining hobbits in---I am sure they are most eager to be with Frodo again."  
  
The others nodded and Elrond left, Gandalf following, asking the elf lord for further details of Frodo's prognosis.   
  
Meanwhile Aragorn was trying his luck at de-gowning the hobbit. As he did, Frodo moaned. "Stay . . . away . . ." he begged, barely getting the words out.  
  
"Frodo, do you know who I am?" Aragorn asked him, but the hobbit only looked at him dully, unanswering. "Arwen, I will hold his arms out of the way as you unfasten it. We must get him out of it---he cannot lie in it, soiled as it is."  
  
It was an uphill battle, but finally the two of them managed to ease the nightshirt off as Frodo struggled weakly, groaning and mumbling, although Bilbo did his best to comfort him. Then Aragorn wrapped the hobbit in a clean white sheet and gathered him into his arms while the others stripped the bed. Frodo still would not be quieted, however, and simply stared up at the ranger with wide blue eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he trembled violently.  
  
"Frodo . . . I am not the enemy," Aragorn reassured as he lowered himself into the chair Gandalf had vacated, letting the hobbit lean against his chest. Picking up a fresh cup of ginger tea, he managed to get Frodo to take a few small sips before he set the cup down, shifting Frodo to rest more comfortably against him. "Rest, now . . . rest for a bit." A few minutes later Frodo succumbed to drowsiness and closed his eyes, breathing loudly.  
  
Aragorn turned at the sound of the door opening to see Pippin, Merry, and Sam quietly striding in, trying to be as noiseless as possible. Pippin especially---Elrond must have threatened him with forcible removal if the tweenager disturbed his patient. All of their faces were creased with trepidation as they stole to the chair, reaching with tentative hands to stroke Frodo's hair.   
  
"He's asleep . . . that's good," Sam whispered. "Although I surely wish he knew we were here. I didn't want to leave his side, you know."  
  
Aragorn sighed. "I know, Sam, and I *am* sorry. But as I'm certain Elrond told you, Frodo is a bit disoriented from his seizure and would likely not recognize you just now anyway. It is only temporary . . . he will return to normal once he's slept for a while."  
  
"I understand, Strider, I really do. Is there naught we can do to help now?"  
  
Aragorn looked up at their three faces, all earnestly wanting to help their friend and cousin the only way they knew how. "Yes, of course . . . Pippin and Merry, you can help Arwen with the bed, and Sam, if you would, prepare some good warm water for Frodo's sponge bath. You have done that before, I know. He'll be needing fresh water bottles as well."  
  
"Oh yes, coming right up, Strider." Sam went off for a bit to complete his errand while Merry and Pippin helped Arwen and Bilbo with changing the bedding.   
  
"What's this for?" Pippin asked as he helped to lay out a waterproof leather skin over the mattress, to be covered with more padding and sheets.   
  
"He soiled the bed during his convulsion, Peregrin," Bilbo answered. "Perfectly normal. However, the mattress is now too wet for him to lie on it again unprotected."  
  
The youngest hobbit's eyes grew huge and then narrowed in pity as he took this information in. "Poor Frodo. I did that myself as a tweenager when I was terribly ill. Quite embarrassing---especially," and now he turned to Merry, his voice lowering to a whisper so only his cousin could hear, "when he finds out it happened with Arwen about. To do such a thing around males, well . . . it's nothing, but with a lass---and an elf lass at that?" Pippin shook his head at the notion.   
  
"Exactly why you're *not* going to tell Frodo, Peregrin Took," Merry admonished as he slipped a pillow into a fresh case. "And in any case, Arwen isn't exactly what I'd call a 'lass.' I heard she was thousands of years old, Pip---I'm sure she's seen much more."  
  
"Hmmmm . . . I suppose you're right."  
  
Together the four of them swiftly made the bed up with clean sheets and then covered it with soft absorbent towels, upon which Aragorn carefully deposited Frodo, unwrapping him from about his sheet.   
  
Sam had brought the warm soapy water and Aragorn and Arwen thoroughly sponged Frodo down, washing his limbs and front and turning him over onto his side to wash his back and bottom half as well. Through it all the hobbit was out, seeming completely boneless, his breathing quite nasal and loud---something Elrond had indicated was normal after a seizure. Merry and Pippin sat nearby, watching, while Sam busied himself with getting the hot water bottles and finding something clean for Frodo to wear.   
  
"It is fortunate that young Master Baggins is asleep," Arwen commented as she ran the cloth over Frodo's pale cheekbones and gently wiped the curves of his delicate pointed ears. "Otherwise our moving him would most assuredly cause him pain."   
  
Aragorn nodded, trying to keep hold of a small slippery hand, which was quite a challenge. Inwardly he was thinking to himself that if he ever had children with Arwen, he hoped she would do the bathing, but of course he would never voice that to his beloved . . . "Indeed. But as soon as your father arrives with the treacle, we will regret it. We shall have to coax him to take it unconscious."  
  
The two finished silently as Sam came up behind them. "Mr. Frodo's got no clean nightshirts to wear, Strider. He must have gone through them all already."  
  
"Very well---he can go without for a while. It will be easier on him that way anyway---no jostling him about as we attempt to dress him."  
  
Making certain Frodo was well dried off, Arwen lifted him while the others removed the towels from underneath. The hobbit was tucked back into bed on his side with hot water bottles and covered with clean sheets and blankets, his leg again protected from the pressure of blankets by the use of pillows.   
  
"You're going to just leave poor Frodo naked?" Pippin asked, never one for delicacy, as he watched his cousin curl up and snuggle down into his sheets. "I do hope I am never ill and must be healed by any of you---I do have some dignity I would like to retain."  
  
The others stared at him, shaking their heads---Merry nearly guffawing---as they settled in for another vigil. Bilbo wanted to be close to Frodo, so Aragorn boosted him up onto the bed. Once there, the old hobbit sat close to his heir, rubbing Frodo's shoulder and smoothing his hair, until just minutes later he himself nodded off, asleep.   
  
To be continued 


	14. A Turning Point

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION, PART 14/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
***  
  
Gandalf stole to the side of Frodo's overly large bed and stood over it, smiling at the two hobbits sleeping there. Apparently Bilbo's exhaustion had finally caught up with him. He lay propped against the headboard, his head nodding even as his arms gently embraced Frodo, who was curled up close with his head pillowed on the old hobbit's stomach, his head rising up and down slightly with Bilbo's breathing.   
  
In the corner, Merry, Pippin, and Sam were asleep on loungers and chairs that had been put into the room earlier. As for Frodo, he had been completely out of it for the past several hours or so, and Aragorn had spent the better part of an hour dosing him with the last of the treacle---prompting him to swallow while asleep---as well as much more of the re-hydration drink. Elrond had checked Frodo frequently and reported an improvement each time. The hobbit's temperature was coming up a bit and he even had a tiny bit of color in his cheeks---but, the elf-lord had warned, Frodo was still not out of the danger zone.   
  
Frodo shivered and Gandalf gently tucked the blanket more tightly about the naked hobbit. At the movement Bilbo woke briefly and opened his eyes, confusion setting in for a moment until he looked at Gandalf and down at Frodo's curly head and realized where he was. He yawned, stretching his back a bit, causing Frodo to shift in his sleep. Gently Bilbo rubbed Frodo's back through the blankets.   
  
"How is he doing, Gandalf? Has Elrond told you?"   
  
"He is improving, my old friend." The wizard wiped down Frodo's brow with a clean cloth, frowning a bit. "Elrond seems quite hopeful that if there are no further complications, Frodo should recover."  
  
Bilbo let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, praise Elbereth, Gandalf. I don't know what I'd do if anything untoward happened to the lad." He stopped as he saw the expression on the wizard's face. "What is it? What's wrong?"  
  
Gandalf laid a hand on Frodo's forehead, frowning. "His temperature has been coming up----a good sign, according to Elrond---but now he seems a bit too warm, I should think." The wizard folded the covers back a bit to dab at Frodo's chest with the cloth and stopped.   
  
Bilbo leaned forward, peering at a few pink raised areas of skin on Frodo's otherwise pale torso and neck. "Gandalf, what is that?"  
  
"It appears to be a rash of some sort." He sighed. "Yet another complication. That's all he needs."  
  
***  
  
"It is a serum illness---a reaction to the treacle compound," Elrond confirmed as he sat on the edge of Frodo's bed. "The reaction itself is rarely life-threatening and is normal, but it usually occurs much later than this. At any rate, we shall have to hope that the treacle we have given him already will be sufficient. To give him more might throw his system into shock."   
  
Standing next to the bed with Gandalf, Aragorn shook his head. "Elrond, I do not entirely understand. A reaction such as this usually takes place many days or even weeks after the substance is given." As soon as he spoke, realization dawned. "Ah, now I see. We gave him a compound extremely similar to the treacle when he was ill with his Morgul wound. That is why this has manifested so soon."  
  
Impatient, Bilbo cut in. "So what does that mean? No more of the medicine? How will he get better?" There were practically tears in the old hobbit's eyes as he continued to hold Frodo, stroking his dark hair. On the other side of the bed, the three other hobbits listened, their eyes wide with fear.   
  
"I believe he will pull through with no difficulties, Master Bilbo," Elrond told him with a smile. "We had planned to give him no more treacle unless the situation was dire, and he was able to keep down Aragorn's last dose. The next hour or two will tell us much. And we shall have to watch that fever and the hives, which will make him quite uncomfortable."  
  
For the next hour and a half they waited anxiously. Finally, after a routine examination, the elf-lord sat on the edge of the bed and laid his hands on his patient's forehead, concentrating, before opening his eyes again and smiling.   
  
"The poison within his system is disappearing," he told them, to a chorus of relieved sighs. "He will recover with no lasting effects, provided he does not overdo it and convalesces slowly. He will still be ill and will have to stay in bed for many days, but he will be fine."  
  
Coming to wakefulness and vaguely realizing he was being discussed, Frodo blinked, his leg throbbing, and moaned. His head was pillowed on something soft. A person, it felt like.   
  
"Frodo, my lad?" Bilbo's voice, from above his head. Ah, that was it. He was lying cuddled up next to Bilbo, and it was a very nice feeling, although he wondered if a hobbit of his age should be beyond needing such comfort. The first thing he was aware of was that he felt a great deal better---the terrible pain and nausea seemed to have abated for the most part. The second thing he noticed, with some embarrassment, was that he was totally naked under the bedclothes.   
  
A masculine voice entered his thoughts and he blinked again to see that Elrond was sitting next to him, and Aragorn, Gandalf, Sam, Merry, and Pippin were standing behind him. "Well, Master Baggins," Elrond said, smiling, "it seems you have once again outsmarted the poison of an enemy. You should make a complete recovery. Even your leg is looking very well, although it will still be swollen and cause you pain for a good while. Can you tell me how you are feeling?"  
  
Frodo tried to speak, realizing with some surprise that the numbness in his face was gone and the most unpleasant tingling in his fingers and toes seemed to have disappeared. He felt slightly flushed, but wasn't complaining.   
  
"Better," he answered weakly. "The . . . bad pain is gone. I feel . . . better." And with that he drifted back to sleep, thinking as he did of little Mosco Burrows, who had not been as fortunate.   
  
***  
  
"Frodo?"  
  
Aragorn gingerly sat on the bed next to the restless hobbit. Bilbo had retired to his room for some much-needed sleep and they had placed Frodo on his back for a change of position. His leg was much improved, but still had to be protected from the bedclothes. Indeed, the hobbit looked much better and the profuse sweating had halted a bit, although the color in his cheeks was rapidly giving over to fever-flush.   
  
Aragorn felt Frodo's brow, noting that his temperature was rising, and moved the blankets aside to gauge the spread of the rash. It appeared to have indeed grown worse, and the hobbit was squirming a bit as his skin itched.  
  
"Frodo?"  
  
Opening his eyes all the way, Frodo sighed. He'd been awake off and on for the past hour, feeling too hot and itchy to sleep well. "Mmmm?" he answered, too tired to form a coherent word.   
  
"You need to drink this, Frodo . . . it's broth. You have not eaten anything substantial in days---now that your stomach is recovering I would like for you to try some of this for me. In a bit I will also have some raspberry tea to help the fever and itching and something to help you rest." Without waiting for an answer, the ranger gently settled himself on the bed, figuring he might as well get comfortable because this was likely to take some time. Lifting Frodo's shoulders, he carefully leaned the hobbit back against his chest and began spooning the broth into him. For once Frodo didn't protest, although his progress was slow.   
  
The activity in the room woke the other three hobbits, who at once came to the bedside to visit. Earlier, after a good meal, made jovial by the knowledge that Frodo would recover, the three had headed back to Frodo's room for another nap. Pippin had wanted to lay on the bed with Frodo, but Merry had told him sternly that "any rough jostling will surely pain Frodo's leg and if you so much as cause him to squeak, Pip, I'll have your hide."   
  
So the youngest hobbit contented himself with kissing Frodo's brow and apologizing for the fact that Frodo was still unclothed. "I tried to get them to put a Big Person's nightshirt on you, but they'd have none of it, cousin. Just so you know I had nothing to do with it."  
  
Frodo smiled around his spoonful of broth, and the three younger hobbits talked softly to him, pleased that their cousin and friend was once again fairly lucid. After a while, it was clear that Frodo was growing tired and they went back to their respective places in the room to nap a bit.   
  
"Well, little one, you finished more of this broth than I thought you would," Aragorn told Frodo as he eased off the bed and resettled the hobbit comfortably. Now they needed to sponge him down with a wash of burdock and goldenseal root, perhaps, to lower his fever and ease the skin irritation at the same time. "Rest," Aragorn told him, planning to consult with Elrond briefly to determine the best course of action. "I'll bring back the tea in a while---it will ease your aches and put you to sleep."   
  
But a moment later, the door opened and Arwen entered with several boxes and bottles of herbal concoctions. She smiled at all four hobbits and easily kissed Aragorn before setting her burdens down on the bedside table.   
  
"Father sent me with specific instructions for taking care of our Ring-bearer," she told the ranger, and Aragorn nodded, relieved that his foster-father was thinking ahead. "A sponge bath and rubdown, he thinks, will help immensely."   
  
"I will leave Frodo in your capable hands for a bit, then, while I go and prepare his medicine," he said, and with a gentle smoothing of Frodo's bangs, he turned and left the room.   
  
To be continued 


	15. Recovery and Threats

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION, PART 15/16  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
There are small non-graphic mentions of bodily functions here. If that disturbs you, I caution you not to read on. :)  
  
***  
  
Frodo stirred and looked warily at Arwen as she busied about the room gathering things. He had dozed off a bit and hadn't heard the last part of her and Aragorn's conversation, but he was quite certain she was there to dose him with various teas and broths as everyone else seemed to be doing. The other hobbits were asleep in the corner, exhausted by their vigil.  
  
Arwen gathered a bowl and began to pour water into it from a pitcher by the bed, causing Frodo to grimace as he realized he needed to relieve himself. But he was certainly not going to mention it. He would just wait until she left and ask Sam for the chamber-pot---there were some things he did not feel it appropriate to discuss with the elf-maid, and his bladder was definitely one of them.   
  
Finishing her task and adding a sweet-smelling liquid to the water, she strode to the bed and placed a hand on Frodo's brow, smiling down at him. "You've a bit of a fever," she said softly as she began to pull his blankets down, "and this should lower your temperature and make you more comfortable."   
  
Unsettled, Frodo grasped the covers, gulping as he tried to find his voice. "I . . . I'm quite . . . naked under here," he said haltingly, prompting a girlish laugh.   
  
"Well, Master Frodo, I could not very well bathe you if you were wearing clothes, could I?"  
  
"Bathe . . . me?" The hobbit's face reddened. He had vague memories of Arwen sponging him down before, but he had apparently been too sick to care and not quite in his right mind. Now, he still felt ill, but not so ill that he would not die of embarrassment. And there was the bladder problem, as well. Thinking about having to relieve himself made him squirm, and he risked a longing glance at the small chamber-pot on his bedside table.   
  
"Yes, indeed. Now---" Her voice trailed off as she noticed his discomfort. Leaning down, she smoothed his hair. "Frodo, are you in pain?"  
  
"No . . . no, I'm all right . . ." He made another face though and decided he was just uncomfortable enough to risk humiliation. "Lady Arwen . . . might I . . . might I have the chamber-pot and a moment of privacy?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he tried not to stutter. He could feel his face flushing.   
  
She smiled. "So that is your problem, Frodo. Why did you not speak of it before? I am relieved you are not in pain after all. Here, let us turn you onto your side. It will be easier for you that way."   
  
Gently she helped him turn over, careful of his leg, and grabbed the pot. He started to take it from her but they both realized at once that it would be too heavy for him in his weakened condition. Patting his shoulder, she pulled the covers back, her eyes growing concerned as she glimpsed the hives on his torso, and set the pot in place before turning to give him privacy.   
  
"I . . . I am finished," he told her a minute later and she took the chamber-pot away, quite unfazed by the whole affair. Frodo hastily pulled his covers back up, trying to shrink into a ball and disappear. He had been sick many times before and had been forced to rely on others, but they had always been male, his mother, or an older hobbit lady such as Bell Gamgee. He'd never had anyone quite like the Lady Arwen tending to him before.   
  
"Now," she said as she wrung a clean cloth in the basin of fragrant water, "you will lie there quietly, correct, and rest while I do this?" Her eyes were twinkling, as if she knew he would cause trouble and was bracing herself for it.   
  
Instead he nodded, feeling drowsy and realizing that protests would gain him nothing anyway.   
  
"Good." Arwen sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his blankets back, covering him with large towels in caring for his modesty. Frodo could not quite place the scent of the water, but it did calm him, and he lay quiescent while she sponged him off, soothing with her voice as she did so. While she worked, he studied her, appreciating the fact that his vision was back to normal and he could see her flawless skin and bright eyes clearly. He sighed, thinking of how he longed to see Arwen and Aragorn happily united some day---and the odds against them.   
  
Slowly some of the sick feeling left Frodo and he nearly found himself drifting to sleep as Arwen turned him over and sponged his back and lower body before lightly drying him off. Gauging his temperature with her hands, she was pleased to see that his skin was cooler. Now there was only the lotion.   
  
"What . . . is that?" he asked weakly as she dipped her hands into a tub and scooped out a strong-but-pleasant-smelling white cream.   
  
"An ointment to soothe your itchy skin, Frodo. Now just relax---this will make you feel better, I promise."  
  
His eyes widened, but as she massaged the lotion on with soft hands, turning him this way and that to reach everywhere, his tired, fevered body began to relax. Indeed, even when she gently applied it to his hive-covered bottom he was able to quell the urge to squash a pillow over his head. And after a bit, Frodo could stay awake no longer.   
  
***  
  
"He is making excellent progress," Elrond said many hours later, rising from Frodo's bedside to face Aragorn and Gandalf. Now that the hobbit was out of danger they had given him sleep-inducing teas and he had dozed peacefully throughout the day, awake only when they spooned nourishing broths into him. They had still been obliged to keep a close eye on his temperature and sponge him down periodically as well, but the hobbit was so exhausted his eyes had but fluttered a bit when Arwen applied lotion to his rash a second time.   
  
"His leg is healing quite well, although he will not be able to put pressure on it for some time," Elrond continued, "and he will be bedridden for many days more on my authority. Even if he feels like rising, I insist he stay in bed until he is fully recovered." He shook his head. "He has already endured far too much to risk a relapse."  
  
The others nodded, their eyes showing obvious relief. "Keeping him in bed might be a trial, Elrond," Gandalf said, knowing Frodo far too well.   
  
The elf-lord raised his eyebrows. "Then I will make certain I tell Samwise his master must remain in bed---and then I have no doubt it will be done."   
  
Gandalf and Aragorn chuckled.   
  
Elrond smiled, looking down at Frodo as he smoothed the hobbit's bangs back and felt his temperature again. "For now the best treatment is supportive care. Keeping him comfortable, making certain he rests, and getting him to take nourishment. He has been able to keep the broths down, and I would like to see him take in something more substantial when he comes awake next."  
  
***  
  
"Frodooooo . . . Frodo Bagginssss . . ."   
  
"Sssshh, Pippin, you're not supposed to wake him up yet."  
  
"Well, he needs to eat this food Strider brought up, Merry. Look at him---he's wasting away under there. I can feel every one of his ribs!"  
  
If Frodo had not already been on the verge of awareness thanks to soft hobbit voices crooning in his ear, he definitely was jarred awake by small fingers prodding his ribcage through the blankets. "Ouch . . . Pippin, what are you doing . . ."   
  
The bed was jostled a bit and Frodo felt his cousin's warm arms embrace him from behind and Pippin's curly hair graze his cheek as the younger hobbit settled against him. "Ah, just seeing if you were awake, Frodo---Strider says you need to eat something solid to get your bowels moving again. And if I may say, you are too thin, cousin. We need to fatten you up."  
  
"Mmmmm . . ." Frodo replied, nearly drifting to sleep again and looking forward to being completely recovered and having no one but himself worrying over his blood, bladder, bowels, or other bodily functions. He squirmed a bit, feeling Pippin leaning over him again.   
  
"Frodo, what's wrong?"  
  
"I itch."  
  
"Oh, you poor dear. Here." Gently Pippin rubbed his back through the covers, scratching lightly. It did feel good and Frodo sighed, actually opening his eyes a bit in surprise when his stomach grumbled. He still felt weak---but rather comfortable---and he thought he might be able to drink a bit of broth.   
  
"What's on the tray?" he asked wearily, nodding toward the bedside table.   
  
This time it was Merry, sitting across from them in the chair, who answered, lifting the tray's silver cover as tempting aromas wafted out. "It's all invalid food. Creamy soup, custard, applesauce---looks very good, I must say. The mushroom soup smells even better than the recipe served at Brandy Hall."  
  
"It is better," Pippin said, then shut his mouth, embarrassed.   
  
"Peregrin Took, did you steal Frodo's food off that tray?"  
  
"I only had a little taste, is all."  
  
"Right." Merry rolled his eyes before looking at Frodo again. "Anyway, why don't we help you have some of this, Frodo? You do need to take something, and Sam's gone off to grab a bite himself, since you were sleeping quite soundly."  
  
"Hmmm . . . I suppose I could eat a bite or two, perhaps," Frodo agreed.   
  
Merry shook his head. "Unless you eat half of the food on this tray, I am afraid you'll be in store for some unpleasant nourishing tonics."  
  
"Pippin can have whatever is left and we can tell them I ate it. They won't suspect."  
  
At this Merry laughed and shook his head. "Trust me, cousin, you shan't get off that easily. I've heard their conversations. They will be watching your bowels if they think you have eaten, and if your bowels don't move---well, you don't want to know what they will do to you."   
  
"What will they do to him, Merry?" Pippin asked, a look of horror on his face.   
  
Without answering, Merry turned to the bedside table and opened a drawer there, pulling out an enema syringe and waving it in front of Frodo's face, his eyebrows raised.   
  
Frodo's eyes grew very wide and he gulped. "I . . . I think I am quite hungry after all."   
  
Merry grinned. "I thought you would say that."   
  
To be continued 


	16. Golden Rings and Other Things

FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION, CONCLUSION  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13 (This part G)  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
I have to say a HUGE thank-you and am actually down on my knees worshipping all you wonderful reviewers out there. I never dreamed this story would get that many, and I thank you for your patience in seeing it through. :)  
  
***  
  
Ah, it felt very good, Frodo Baggins thought to himself, to be wearing a clean, fresh nightshirt---as opposed to sleeping in the altogether---and resting comfortably dry in his soft bed without sweating the sheets down every hour. He still had a touch of fever and Aragorn or Arwen rubbed ointment into his skin regularly to soothe his remaining hives, but the hobbit knew he was regaining strength and was on the road back to a normal existence---if bearing the One Ring could, in fact, be considered normal.   
  
His leg was healing well, although it was still very painful. Flipping the sheets back, Frodo grimaced at it. The swelling had nearly disappeared, but his calf was greatly discolored and right now looked most unsightly. Master Elrond had assured him, however, that in a few weeks he would have nothing but a tiny thin scar to remind him of the horrible event.   
  
He balanced a thick, leather-bound book on his lap, sighing. He was beginning to feel a bit antsy from spending so much time in bed, even with the knowledge that he was so weak he'd not be able to walk two steps without falling.   
  
Next to Frodo, Bilbo lay propped up against the headboard, nodding off in sleep. It was one of the old hobbit's favorite pastimes now---to sit beside Frodo and keep an eye on him, making certain the younger hobbit got enough rest and sleep. Except, Frodo mused to himself, Bilbo usually fell asleep first. Across the room Sam lay snoring on one of the large overstuffed chairs, and Merry and Pippin, ebullient in spirits since Frodo had started recovering, could have been anywhere. Frodo thought they were most likely in Rivendell's great kitchens overdosing on roast beefs, chicken pies, and bread puddings. Frodo himself had managed, to Elrond's pleasure, to finish half a tray of tasty-but-simple hobbit-fare just a bit earlier.   
  
Leaning past Bilbo a bit, Frodo gazed out the window. The sky had already darkened, which meant, no doubt, that Master Elrond or Aragorn would be coming soon with a sleeping draught. It tasted pleasant enough, and it *did* enable Frodo to sleep deeply without pain, but just the same, he was getting rather weary of medicine.   
  
Turning back to his book, Frodo groaned quite loudly, causing Sam to jump up as if bitten and Bilbo to jerk his head up, his eyes flitting about the room wildly.   
  
"Lad, what is it? Are you in pain?"  
  
"Mr. Frodo? Can your Sam help?"  
  
Creasing his eyebrows together, Frodo shook his head and stared at the book in front of him, heedless of the heart attacks he had just nearly given to two hobbits dear to him. "Bilbo----Bilbo, this one is too difficult. You're well aware that my knowledge of Quenya is not as great as yours----I shan't ever be able to translate half of this one!"  
  
Bilbo sighed and Sam looked as if he was caught between hugging Frodo or punching him for scaring him so.   
  
"Frodo, my boy," Bilbo said, "why don't you put the book down and try to rest. There is plenty of time for reading later---Master Elrond wants you to get plenty of sleep, and it is getting dark outside." As if to emphasize his point, Bilbo yawned.   
  
Scowling, Frodo set the book down, trying to hide his own yawn in response to Bilbo's. "Rest, rest, rest . . . I'm not tired, Bilbo---"  
  
A knock at the door interrupted his tirade as Gandalf poked his head in, looking about briefly before entering and coming to sit in the chair at Frodo's bedside.   
  
"Well, well, my dear hobbit---it *is* good to see some color back in your cheeks and some brightness in your eyes. How are you feeling?"   
  
Laying the book down, Frodo regarded the wizard. "Much better, Gandalf. Very ready to be out of bed and up and about." He let out a deep breath and spoke hesitantly. "Master Elrond tells me I will be allowed up for short intervals in a few more days. He said I shall have many weeks to recover my health before I . . . before I must leave."  
  
Gandalf nodded. "Rest and take what time to ease your cares that you may, Frodo, and enjoy Rivendell while its comforts are open to you. You need not worry about anything at the moment."  
  
"I know. And I am grateful for everyone's help . . . I suppose being the Ring-bearer is of little consequence when just a few short days ago I did not expect to live to see next week."  
  
Smiling, the wizard patted the hobbit's arm gently. "But you came through it splendidly, as Bagginses are wont to do. Now, it is quite dark outside, and you should put away your book and lie down to sleep."  
  
"Honestly, Gandalf, I would rather stay awake a bit---"  
  
Suddenly the door opened again and this time Aragorn looked in, smiling at Frodo. "Ah, Frodo . . . you have a visitor. Er . . . several visitors, as it were, if you feel up to it."  
  
The hobbit's eyebrows knitted together as he wondered who in Middle-earth could be visiting him in Rivendell that he hadn't recently seen. Pulling his covers up to his chest, he leaned back against his pillows and stared, a bit confused.   
  
"Uh, please . . . show them in."   
  
Aragorn entered, followed by Elrond and Arwen, and held the door open for several more elves with various musical instruments. Frodo recognized Lindir among them---and at the sight of the last elf to enter the room---a tall male with shining golden hair---the hobbit's face lit up in delight.   
  
"Glorfindel!"   
  
"Well met again, Frodo Baggins." Glorfindel smiled as he strode to Frodo's bed and sat gingerly on its edge, laying a hand on the hobbit's pale brow to ease some of the lingering pain. "You are looking well. I would have come by to see you much sooner but, unfortunately, was on an errand far outside Rivendell. I have only just returned."   
  
"I am glad you came by," Frodo told him, remembering all that Glorfindel had done for him at the Ford and just before. "And how fares Asfaloth?"   
  
Glorifindel chuckled. "He is well, and stubborn as usual. You shall have to visit him in the stables when you are strong again." Gently clasping Frodo's shoulder, he rose. "I would like to visit with you longer, Frodo, but you do need your rest, and we have something for you."  
  
Frodo nodded, a bit regretful that he was not able to talk further with his friend but put at ease by Glorfindel's touch. "Thank you." He did not feel *very* tired, as everyone seemed to think. However, he saw Elrond talking with Aragorn in the corner and knew, without a doubt, that the elf-lord would have medicine aplenty for him after the others left. Next to Frodo, Bilbo had again nodded off to sleep, and across the room, Sam watched the goings-on with wide brown eyes, a bit taken aback to see so many mighty folk in one rather small place.   
  
With the exception of Elrond, the other elves in the room gathered together. Arwen, her eyes shining, nodded to Frodo as a smile curved her lips. "Well, Master Frodo, since you cannot visit us in the Hall of Fire, we have decided this evening to bring the Hall of Fire to you." Here she paused, glancing over at Aragorn, who in turn looked at the floor as if he were trying not to chuckle.   
  
"However," Arwen continued, "we wish to begin by singing what Estel and Master Bilbo have told us is one of your favorites, Frodo, before going on to our more traditional ballads. Everyone?"   
  
After a few seconds to get the right note, the minstrels began to sing and play---Lindir looking just a *tad* uncomfortable with the choice of melody.   
  
"There is an inn, a merry old inn,   
beneath an old grey hill,   
And there they brew a beer so brown  
That the Man in the Moon himself came down  
one night to drink his fill.   
  
The ostler has a tipsy cat  
that plays a five stringed fiddle;   
And up and down he runs his bow,   
Now squeaking high, now purring low,   
now sawing in the middle.   
  
The landlord keeps a little dog . . .   
  
Frodo, remembering his ill-fated singing of this tune at The Prancing Pony, could not keep the huge smile off his face. He glanced over at Aragorn, who winked, and then at Gandalf, who sat puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, his eyes twinkling. Even Bilbo woke up long enough to nod appreciatively. Sung in the melodic elven voices, the song took on a life it had never quite known before.   
  
Then that particular tune ended and the singers immediately launched into one of the Elvish songs Frodo had heard several times in the Hall of Fire. The voices were enchanting and as the hobbit listened, he could detect a few of the words and understood that Arwen and the others were singing of the Blessed Realm.   
  
Soon, unable to help himself, Frodo grew a bit drowsy, and as he listened, he saw in his mind a blue swirling Sea, and green rolling fields and sun-filled meadows in far lands, and leaves of trees filled with sweet fruits the hobbit had never seen nor imagined.   
  
Only a few minutes later Frodo's eyelids became too heavy to stay open and his head drooped as the words swept him away. Arwen, noticing, stepped out from the singing group and to Frodo's bed, removing the book from the hobbit's lap and feeling his brow, pleased to find it of a nearly normal temperature.   
  
"I do not think he will require a sleeping draught this evening," the elf-maid remarked as together, she and Aragorn sat the now-sleeping Frodo up and removed some of pillows from behind him. Laying him comfortably back, they tucked him warmly under the bedclothes and then did the same with Bilbo, having not the heart to wake him and knowing Frodo would benefit from his presence.  
  
Seeing Frodo settled and breathing deeply and easily, Aragorn and Arwen blew the lamps out about the two hobbits, smiling as Bilbo turned over and snuggled close to his heir. Frodo did not stir except to sigh contentedly, soundly lulled to sleep by the Elvish minstrels' melodies. And all that night he dreamt not of the circle of gold about his neck, but of golden rivers in the Blessed Realm he never thought to see.  
  
**NAMARIE---THE END** 


End file.
